by Don Blanding
Staid people say that Pan is dead
But they are wrong. His shaggy head
I saw but yesterday at noon,
And once before when shone the moon
Across Manoa Valley where The ginger blooms.
The evening air
Was still... so still it made me fear
That if I shivered He might hear.
I waited while a silver mist
Skimmed down the sky. A moonbeam kissed
The gauzy veil. Pan looked around
And piped. A magic arch of sound
Curved out upon the misty air...
A lunar rainbow shimmered there.
Last updated November 17, 2022