The Pilgrimage: Part 38 / Phillip Neal Tippin

They mine for the rare earth
Stripping, boring dark despoiling holes
Yet a rare earth this morning rose
Lifting its eyes to mingle in the spring
Light, given again, unbidden, free.

Bare thee bold
Unto thy rest
My soul.

He died for the sins of the whole world
That any one might be saved, as,
Families are stoned together.

Many responses,
Fewer returnings.

These clear and shallow forms
Make it easier to find the floor,
But may also tend to raise
The self to the fore.



All poetry and supplementary material: copyright 2020-2021 by Phillip Neal Tippin. All rights reserved.

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