The grass is greener
but will your toes ever feel the crisp moisture.
You can see the emerald green, feel the fresh droplets
breathe in the soft, clean sent.
Will you curl your toes around the blades?
Say what you will, think what you shall, move and you choose
but Pan will bring you home.
Home to pasture, home to wander away again.
Pan will find you.
He will seek you out in the day, under the hot sun
as the people press from all sides.
He will watch the sweat drip from your face and tears rush from your eyes.
He will find you in your bed, alone
as thoughts dance about to the sound of his lute.
He will discover you
twisting in the stillness
to the rhythm of the mind that slowly drives you mad.
He will watch you slip down the rabbit hole,
and ride the circles.
Alas, home has already found you.
His job is done.
His home was never yours.
You to your thoughts, he to the sheep.
May the Great Mother fold you in her sphere.
May she carry you along the path that is yours.
May she teach you what home truly is.