A rain cloud bursts through its point of suspension
condensation upon particles of dust within the air starts a paradox.
Parallel cases that have harrowed,
Philosophers to a point of flummox.
For in order to reach the ground,
Our droplet must first cross half its distance from the sky.
At first glance it seems impossible,
but revealed with a bit more persistence.
As we skim over distance’s discreteness,
and divide it into the infinitely small.
So too must we treat time as continuous,
and slice it into the infinitesimal.
The limit set on distance now,
appears the work of a fool
As time continues passing smoothly,
heedless of our own secondly rule
For nature follows her own laws
despite our witty rhetoric
Separating everything into solitary boxes away from the ‘confusion’ of reality,
Is distance truly discrete indeed?
What of the separation of the inseparable into yet smaller particles?
Dread upon our safe theory of reality sets in the moment we know something to be true. Tis the curse of science. To live to doubt forever.
And so the droplet upon its final moment of intersection with the ground,
A moment come upon by speeds a square of the distance twas away,
Shatters it’s own liquid vitric against the concrete floor.
The paradox itself as well is now merely
a puddle on the ground.