The Pilgrimage: Part 8 / Phillip Neal Tippin
The snail’s slime line
On guttered leaf, wood edge
A breath from stepfall
All the trees are off the leaves
Like theives, essentially naked
But with oil to stay the plague
And to burry their riches deep.
Palor rises when
The fight against cold
The man who lives by a creek
Has a wife, kids, and bridge to keep
And when the water and fish speak
They remind him of a brook washed
In the washing.
The winter light
Is trim, nimble
Let me not soften the blow
Of language, seem
To compass, curtail what
Breaks upon and broke satisfies.
Too late, maybe,
But not too early.
I slept a thick sleep and dark,
Long and weighty with dreams.
So, refusing to retire their speech,
I was made to rest midst dread scenes.