The Pilgrimage: Part 9 / Phillip Neal Tippin
Tuesday’s toil tucked behind
The wheel’s homing turn,
Clearest mark between
The thick of things
And the thinning day.
Father,
Bring to bear the given rest
Upon tomorrow’s toil.
By Your yoke and rein take,
Plow, apply to field.
An owl broke from the cedar
As I approached the bridge
On foot. The dogs and I
Stood stalk and stared.
The hills in one’s head
Are for taking or dying upon.
The two ways:
Isolated and informed or
Coinherent and conceived.
The storm of Eve’s anguish
seething
Still wrestles on the morn.
We live in a visual word.
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