A Parable as Sung to a Quasi-Existent God

By Earl Smith

I sit on my twig – listening - watching. 
     Below they sit beside the running stream, 
          these two greatest of all men - musing, 
               watching a wave waiting ever patiently 
                    for the rock that has blocked its way 
                         to finish its sedentary undertaking. 
“That wave, it moves yet not at all, 
           how can it be, yet not be, all at once”? 
                     asked the great Parmenides. 
“So much movement, so little motion, 
            the same, and never again the same”, 
                     said the thoughtful Heraclitus. 
I sit my twig, sing my song; 
     having given my sacred gift, 
          take to my wings, leaving them,
                wingless, sitting there.
 
                      For what do birds have to say to men? 
                           And for that matter, 
                              what could men possibly 
                                   have to say to birds? 


The foolishness that refuses to recognize, 
    that without the rock, there would be no wave, 
          becomes a cypher for the uncomprehending. 
               What wave? 
                    What rock? 
On yet another twig I pause, 
     and, to the silence, give my song, 
          waiting for the rock to finish its
              sedentary undertaking
                 and open the way
                    for my continuance.

 Earl Smith writes short stories, poetry, and essays focused on the human experience. Most of them are drawn from personal experience. He also write action-adventure thrillers – often with a paranormal twist. (https://www.smithtales.com/)