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.

Pan retreats.

His home was never yours.

He leaves.

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.

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One thought on “

  1. Happy Ostara, Lil’ Miss. May fair Idunna cast her enduring apples upon our cheeks.

    Just heard there’s a group of Asatruar who’ve replaced the blot (blood sacrifice) by substituting the animal with a large chocolate bunny. Yes, really.

    Sometimes I wonder of the simple agri-miracle, the pastoral life, and the cycles. Self-sustaining as a goal. I want a no-effort permaculture kit, like the plastic container with a seed sprout that fell out of the box of Trix cereal, a secret surprise of simplicity, the sphere of the egg that never questions whether it came first because it doesn’t matter, it just is, birth, growth, harvest, death, again, again, again.

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