Yesterday at the lake
I came upon a snail in the grass,
as if I had been looking for it. I was
looking for something like it,
for any stone or leaf; any small proof
that the beauty of nature
was something I can hold.
You could look no further
then the endless-blue lake
and stop to worship there.
Or get lost in that eternal temple
of the moon, and I do
spend all day and night like this--
my neck craned up toward the heavens.
So I remember to look down.
And there at my feet was the snail.
With it's long eyes out, it reached
its silver, giraffe-like neck upward,
touched the grass as if it's entire body were a finger.
And maybe it has never seen the lake,
or anything but grass and stones and leaves
And maybe it contemplates nothing
on its slow and careful journey.
I hadn't looked at a snail, not really
not since I was a child.
So I bent my stiff knees down,
stooped my arthritic back over
and thought,
This is no longer the body of a child.
But this is still the body of a snail.