On the Parables of the Mustard Seed

(The Mustard Seed by Juliet Venter)

(Matt. 17:20; Mark 4:30-32;

Luke 13:18-19)

Who ever saw the mustard-plant,

wayside weed or tended crop,

grow tall as a shrub, let alone a tree, a treeful

of shade and nests and songs?

Acres of yellow,

not a bird of the air in sight.

No. He who knew

the west wind brings

the rain, the south wind

thunder, who walked the field-paths

running His hand along wheatstems to glean

those intimate milky kernels, good

to break on the tongue,

was talking of miracle, the seed

within us, so small

we take it for worthless, a mustard-seed, dust,

nothing.

                Glib generations mistake

the metaphor, not looking at fields and trees,

not noticing paradox. Mountains

remain unmoved.

Faith is rare, He must have been saying,

prodigious, unique—

one infinitesimal grain divided

like loaves and fishes,

as if from a mustard-seed

a great shade-tree grew. That rare,

that strange: the kingdom

                               a tree. The soul

a bird. A great concourse of birds

at home there, wings among yellow flowers.

The waiting

kingdom of faith, the seed

waiting to be sown.

~Denise Levertov