Ode to a Snail
Washington is the best place for snails.
A peasant and king combined to make one
Tiny, slimy thing that can’t hear or run.
What roads have you traveled with home on your back?
What stories unravel themselves from your pack?
Watch the world racing past, watch the sun rise and fall.
Wood rot and green grass, shelter cool, garden wall
Is the world that you know, minute world it may be.
So much room left to grow, so much more left to see.
But your stalks do not care to see more than they do,
The clean clear of the air or the wet of the dew,
And so still you linger on this ancient old wall,
As long as my finger, not noticed at all,
And I can’t help but feel, yes, I can’t help but see
That your world is more real than mine ever could be.
