Of Mice and Men

Bits of vegetable matter drop
from the ridgepole of my writing house
(where mice have built their leafy beds)
onto the desk where I write this poem
which is starting out as observation
and which may lead to contemplation
of our insignificance in a world
we investigate and decorate
but didn’t create, making much
of what we do, forgetting too often
just Who made this place at all
hospitable for the bits of matter we are.

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