What Matters?

The sky, star-studded, above an open field,
silhouette of trees against the great wheel
of the galaxy rotating above
as the planet revolves
beneath my earthbound soles.

To the expanse above,
I, like a flea lost in the pelt of a vole,
inconsequential in the face of such hugeness,
conclude that the universe
does not care.

What arrogance makes our species
think we are special,
or even significant,
in a grand scheme of things?
We are not.

What could possibly matter
when the universe laughs
in our upturned infinitesimal faces?
Nothing matters, for
it doesn’t know we are here.

How, then, shall I live my four-score and ten
revolutions around the sun,
knowing, as I do, that this revelation
does not register as the blink of an eye
to the overwhelming cosmos?

This is what matters:
the hug of a child,
the kiss of a lover,
the raspy tongue of a pet.
These matter. Love matters.
Without love, nothing matters.