One afternoon I was trying to find the right composition for my first stab at abstract art, and became creatively paralyzed in the process.  I put it aside for a time, and found this poem by Sara Teasdale.  In the tranquil scene of her soft rain, she seems to be saying that we are such a small fraction of our universe, that nothing is of lasting consequence.Seeking perfection in my art, or perfection in life, is truly a wasted effort.

So I let my colors fly, and hello abstract!

There will come Soft Rain

Sara Teasdale

There will come soft rain and the smell of the ground,

And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,

And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire

Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire.

And not one will know of the war, not one

Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,

If mankind perished utterly.

And Spring herself when she woke at dawn,

Would scarcely know that we were gone.