Nub of the Matter

Nub of the Matter

I hate to break this news to me,
but logic dictates I don't matter.
Out of not much matter, I am made,
and such matter as I do comprise
does not export significance.

Particles of matter disperse and reconvene anew,
I know. Any one state of particulate
coherence may be lovely (rhododendron
flower, son's smile) or may be me, whom
I like well enough, but in any case, what
so ensues? In relation to everything,
I'm merest particle of perpetual change.

Only matter can make me. I've already
been made up. Dissolution's penciled in
on a calendar Heraclitus keeps next
to his river of fire. Only God can make
me matter. This is the nub of the matter,
the God's honest truth.

Copyright 2008 Hans Ostrom