Symphony
A viator by Michael Escoubas
(After visiting waterfalls in the Smokie Mountains)

How is it that water and rocks
seem to have no limits?
The rocks are not about to move.
The water simply goes
where it is allowed to go.

I often try to reason out life–
how it is that water and rocks
compose their own music…
become a symphony, a synthesis
that happens without effort

in flashings of emeralds and pearls
and pools pleasing to the eyes–
How is it that water and rocks
breathe mist rising in rainbows
suspended in air, falling on roots

and stones, mosses and lichens
in textures sweet and clean?
Is this a world apart from our own?
How is it that water and rocks
offer living lessons for searching hearts?

Would that our lives harmonize,
like these, become a thing composed
erudite in happiness, scholars in the art
of living, of seeing fresh and new,
how it is with water and rocks.



 

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