An inconsequential thought often occurs to me,
About the despair that proceeds the realization,
That eventually comes to all of us,
That we are, to be frank, but idle passing thoughts,
Of a truly awful and grand cosmic procession,
Whose fleeting lives can neither be confirmed nor denied,
By anyone truly aware of the scope of all existence,
And though that thought troubles me for a while,
Standing here in my anonymous midland garden,
The crocus struggling to push through the fallen snow,
Seems untroubled by my musings,
And blooms with such certainty that I realize:
There is perhaps beauty in fleeting insignificance.
Discarded Recollections 