The gutters are gurgling the melted remains of Winter.
The frozen leaves curl in the sunshine one last time
before they wither and complete their decomposition.
Buds – once quivering below the surface
of the soil – now sprout, with ever-increasing vigour,
finding the air to be less dense than the clotted Earth.
The whole planet shifts in its elliptical cycle,
comfortably sidling once more into the spring equinox.
Ensconced in a vacuum so deep that sound dissipates
instantaneously.
The planet roves through space like those darling,
budding flowers when they first breach the topsoil
and find that their movement can not be arrested.
Yet, the flower is crushed, or plucked, or poisoned
in a matter of weeks, months.
The planet, on the other hand, endlessly orbits,
clueless to its longevity,
maternal dynasty,
or its incredible fortune.
It groans with age when it cracks along its fault lines.
Its weathered skin of tectonic plates is pock-marked
from all the asteroids.
We tiny apes –
We break the bonds of Chaos
and breathe in the air of Life.
And we glimpse, and we see
that all is passing,
forever and away.
We are specks of matter on the cosmic scale –
pigments of the Universe’s imagination,
sequestered in the back of its Mind,
in some backwater galaxy,
unimportant and forgotten.
The yawning of the void encloses
this pale, blue dot.
There is an eternity of time
waiting to be forgot.