i ache
as if someone broke glass
and stashed the shards
in my brain.
the problem is this:
i feel the little karmas
of ants and chickens,
and everything in-between.

they shout up at me,
these puny scorecards
that hail back
to the first oozy womb.
they�ve found a way
to preserve genesis
in long, endless threads.

what�s being woven,
i don�t know, but every leg
on every insect is a needle.
every feather on every bird
sews the wind.
the tiniest scuttle services fate,
and if you nudge it,
you tweak the tapestry
of a billion years.



�2006 by Chris Crittenden
~Originally Published in The Listening Eye