Considering The Snail
The snail pushes through a green
Night, for the grass is heavy
With water and meets over
The bright path he makes, where rain
Has darkened the earth’s dark. He
Moves in a wood of desire,
Pale antlers barely stirring
As he hunts. I cannot tell
What power is at work, drenched there
With purpose, knowing nothing.
What is a snail’s fury? All
I think is that if later
I parted the blades above
The tunnel and saw the thin
Trail of broken white across
Litter, I would never have
Imagined the slow passion
To that deliberate progress.
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