Chasing Time

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.