POV

Wax, wane, rise, set;
We have our phases like any other space rock
plodding around an insignificant star.
And what if we are Blue
creating marvelous green?
We are so small
statistically we don't exist.
Then how can this infested stone be everything?
Worlds on worlds within a water drop
is all...
I see more value in a dogwood leaf
than Mighty Mankind the Precopernican.
How, after all this time,
do we still find ourselves the centre of it all?
Better to know what we have seen:
That we are each of us worlds to some
and invisible to the next;
That we are made of the same stuff
as the amoeba and the elephant;
that we could fit
if we would but window our castles,
look out on the universe and see
a world within a world within a
drop in the ocean.

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Like this one, POV was part of the longer poem I called Morph. It was, I suppose, a look at changes, appearances, and how they affect our views of ourselves.

This poem might sound a little less angry if you saw it with the rest of the cycle. Or maybe not. I don't know. Sometimes I just get really ticked about how self-centred and arrogant our species is.