Greener Grass
Earthly Yearnings
Lives rooted yearn to roam Lives roaming yearn to stay Ah, the greener grass
The mighty oak, the envy of grass and brush and birch and beech, secretly envies the mouse his freedom to roam. Not to mention the birds who alight on his branches from time to time and then take off again, leaving him both rooted and stranded.
And the mouse, what he would not give for the firm, stately, stationary strength of the oak, especially when chased by cats and owls and other hungry hunters. Just to be able to rest for a while, without the need to constantly look over its shoulder.
I’m not sure whether the grass is always greener the far side of the fence, but it often seems that the other guy, somehow, is better equipped to survive than you are.
Speaking of stationary creatures, I wrote a song about an oak once, long ago now. He, too, longed to fly. Here are the words.
Autumn October brought a storm this year his windy hand stole my leaves and scattered them throughout this land but I must face what leaves may never understand Summer is gone Travelers, their harrowed faces make their way lanterns struggle with the darkness that they may shine a lighted path to see them through their day Summer is gone Freezing strangers rushing past my roots at night specters haunt and harry those who fear they might never reach that distant cottage window’s light Summer is gone Tender nights and promises are swept away lovers I once sheltered now have lost their way though memories and mossy bark remain to say Summer is gone Left I stand, I’m anchored here I cannot go weathering the season I’ve come to know thinking solitarily well, let him blow Summer is gone But sometimes, when my spirit sinks I wish that I could fly away upon the storms that pass me by that pass me by I wish my branches all were wings and proudly set to sail high above hello and then goodbye and then goodbye
I wrote that song late October, in Edinburgh, Scotland. In a small room on a cold second floor. The wind-swept rain pebbled the window and the little heather that supposedly could struggled with its assignment. Perfect oak-song writing weather.
© Wolfstuff
