Grizzling of Illusion Seekers
They say the field beyond the fence
is drenched in brighter dew,
that every dream grows truer there,
and every sky more blue.
So they climb, and strain, and wander far
with neither rest nor root,
wearing hope thin as a migrant star
in pursuit of a stranger’s fruit.
And the grizzling of illusion seekers
is a wind through barren trees,
a murmur of what if and when,
a rustle of unease.
Some break the soil where they first stood
and find it packed with stone,
then turn toward the glowing wood
where other seeds are sown.
But what’s a field but earth and care,
a season’s patient hand?
A greener pasture anywhere
must rise from tended land.
And the grizzling of illusion seekers
carries on the dusty air
the sound of footsteps fleeing grace
to find a grayer there.
For sometimes green is not a place
that lies beyond your gate,
but something born of slow embrace,
of learning how to wait.
To water what the seasons gave,
to guard what wants to grow,
that is the wisdom of the brave
who let the deep roots show.
So lay aside the traveler’s ache,
the far field’s hollow shine.
The truest green is yours to make
along your own worn line.
And the grizzling fades to quiet song
where nurturing begins—
a field, a heart, kept rich and long
by what you choose to tend within.
©TheVillageBoy.
(The figure man who loves alphabets)
