I think that a poet, or anyone else, who cajoles you into contemplating your innermost self by considering a wild flower, or a grain of sand, is warning you (whilst cuddling you) that the world of creation has no room for the mundane. We are not here to condemn "ordinary" things as mundane things. To me, "ordinary" is a beautiful word. Pick up a grey stone and feel its weight, its warmth on your skin, its silky hardness; stroke it with your thumb to feel its texture; turn it over to see how its colour responds to the glinting sunlight and contemplate its millions of years gone. All the better if it isn't a spectacular, glittering diamond. In the words of Bob Dylan (or was it Carly Simon), you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone. Or 'til you've gone. Which makes stuff urgent.