garden snails

May 21, 2011

garden snails

three of the creatures slowly explore my hand

while I crouch in the dirt

to take a break from weeding.

their small bodies are translucent

and wet

across my thick palm,

over each of my fingers,

cracked dry and desperate

with evaporated mud.

one has a shell of swirled amber,

a crystalline fragment

of some heavenly design:

tiny,

and perfect. 

curious little things,

content to make maps

of the landscape of my skin,

sometimes turning back

in methodical circles

to make sure each crease is accurate,

each wrinkle precise. 

their smooth bellies cool my hand,

which still burns from the friction

of careful, violent tugs

on stems and roots.

I look up for a moment:

the green earth glistens

with sunlight and the work

of a thousand garden snails. 

three of the creatures slowly explore my hand

while I crouch in the dirt

to take a break from weeding.

and oh,

how my fingers tremble.