The Pilgrimage: Part 35 / Phillip Neal Tippin
Lord, I know you hear my mind,
But, I need to hear You hearing it sometimes—
To scream out-loud my blind cries.
March winds
Along the duck bob, goose roll,
Coot float, tongue-lick’d creak,
Laps its morning drink,
And rattles the rails of dawn.
In Kansas, we only speak in primary colors,
Leaving noble blendings to the sky.
A self center bend
The prospect made manifold
In the dark wooded ways
Of holding the folds of abundance close.
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