Crisis never stands alone
like a box of crackers on a shelf.
Each disaster, every birth
has context, like anchor points
of a spider web bedazzled
with dew, each stray cat's cry,
a neighbor riding his bike,
the barking chorus when I walk
through the back alley
to mail a letter, a bill paid
with funds from a faraway bank.

At so many points of attachment
intended or random, contingent,
futuristic, paleolithic, like words
dug from the vastness of English,
a million-quadrillionth bit
of our tapestry, I marvel
at life's long weave,

every thread a thin edge
in the warp of origins--
big bang or Big Man's intent.
Best I can do is hint at the web,
a mesh, a stew, mélange, pottage,
canned soup for the soul.