He is not the goddess, he is not the earth,
but he knows her with such delight.
His heart holds every leaf on every tree.
A doorway of spider silk and dirt opened.
His voice nudged my consciousness, there, and there,
Knowing where I could go that I hadn t been yet.
Always the playful voice led me on, pointed out the scenery,
The lichen on a rock, the purple mushroom.
His words dropped down my spine like a waterfall
As they fell through the suddenly open places,
Filling the echoing empty places in me,
The calcified fear and hopelessness.
Air brush spattered blood on deep blue,
Ripped and bleeding for nearly fifty years, could it finally clot?
His hands nudged the blood back in, healing the broken jar.
To wander the woods and find him suddenly there,
In a ring of trees,
Took my breath away.
If he could be the god Pan,
What could I be?