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.
