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.

Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem |

Poems are below...