Sunday, January 20, 2008


It really doesn’t matter what I do,
Not in the cosmic scheme of things, it’s true,
And even less the more we learn how large
The cosmos is and think no one’s in charge.

To say so infinitesimal a mite
As I has meaning is a silly flight
Of fancy, an inflated ego’s dream,
Though still the poet’s most persistent theme.

So even in the face of certain blight,
I rouse myself each early morn to write
What will not last and may be little read
And soon will be forgotten when I’m dead.

And yet it is enough that what I do
This moment has related me to you.