A snail regatta rides
the rough waves
of the Chinese Elm.
Pale corn-colored spirals
glide atop tan rudders.
How easily they could be
buttons scattered on a bare table –
collar and cuff, skirt, jacket, coat.
Later in the day they have vanished
and I stand looking up into the tree.
Is each strange foot sensible
without sensing pain –
able to grip yet slide upward?
Does need drive them –
or desire?
Do they race to the top,
retreat fully into their shells,
and dare one another
to drop –
trusting in the broad leaf safety
of the lilies of the valley?
the rough waves
of the Chinese Elm.
Pale corn-colored spirals
glide atop tan rudders.
How easily they could be
buttons scattered on a bare table –
collar and cuff, skirt, jacket, coat.
Later in the day they have vanished
and I stand looking up into the tree.
Is each strange foot sensible
without sensing pain –
able to grip yet slide upward?
Does need drive them –
or desire?
Do they race to the top,
retreat fully into their shells,
and dare one another
to drop –
trusting in the broad leaf safety
of the lilies of the valley?
