The Pilgrim is a Poet


The pilgrim has something to say

—a pencil packed

to mark the places she stops

along the way—

any surface will serve,

even the rough wooden table

where she had wine with dinner

and talked with others on the path—

(this year Camino, next year Iona…)


She kisses the faded doorway

on her way to the next point,

stepping over an unknown dog

lying full in the sun,

asleep since noon, content.


In her wake, the message:

she came to be

closer to the voice calling towards

—and away—from surrender;

obeying a rustic’s need to unpack

the body’s weight of existence—

items stowed (and retrieved),

slender things like pencils

and harder ones to describe,

the few creature comforts left

to pilgrims who appear drawn

to places of slanted light.







1 thought on “The Pilgrim is a Poet”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s