Paracelsus Walked Along the Forest Floor
and heard the evening's many mouths
chattering in the twilight. From the crown of the oak,
the sunset's final gold spilled gently
gracing the low mumble of the moss.
He knelt reverently before the oak;
his gilded gripping roots clutching the soil and high up his crown
spreading for the wind's mingle and the last lights of day.
"A king is a king" thought the alchemist.
And a fine veil of rain drifted across the plant life,
glowing the yellow bulbed flowers yellow
and far off the darkness lay close
to the soil creeping in and around the plant life.
The old man ran his bony fingers
through his hair and gathered moisture
there as an odd creature stepped into
a silver stream of light.
He had hairy thighs and a long
sharp tail and his hoofed feet
scratched at the dirt.
He doffed a gentleman's hat and said,
"You know me old man,
I am He that isn't."
And the old man knew
or thought he did and said,
"You are Satan."
And the creature laughed
a boyish laugh and kicked
his hoofs about,
"No, old fool, no, I am Pan."