They say the grass is greener over there,
Where skies are bluer and rivers sing clear,
The hills all rolling emerald underfoot,
No dust to bite, no sun like molten lava so brute.
My heart aches with a wanderlust to roam,
To swap this parched plain for a garden to call my home.
But alas! That emerald promise may deceive,
Thick blades are tangled, slowed to a crawl so you must heave.
The songbird’s tune might turn a mournful cry,
And paradise a mirage when the well runs dry.
For discontent’s shadow is ever near,
Who can paint the fairest landscape dark and drear.
So saddle up, but steady in your stirrup-grip,
This journey’s long, a test of of your grit and lip.
The greener pastures lie beyond the crest,
But sweat and sorrow pave your quest.
For every path you take, there’s one left free,
The one that leads you back, a wiser you, back to me.
Instead of chasing ghosts across the line,
Let’s tend our patch where roots of comfort twine.
Water our worries, prune away the doubt,
Let laughter bloom and let courage blossom’s shout.
The grass is greenest where our heart holds sway,
So plant your dreams, and make your patch of earth play.
The StoryTeller 