The Pilgrimage: Part 7 / Phillip Neal Tippin
I lost touch with contingency
Until the spring broke suddenly.
Rather than
Letting the old,
Hemming the new
To fit my skin
Conform, grow
To Him.
A rhyme a day’s
A step away
From fleet time’s ever sway.
Plant a garden
To discover fruit
A corded heart grant
Passage you accord
When darkness covered the screen
How close can you get
With accoutrement?
To take green umbrage
With delight and pleasure.
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