snails 3

Like the child who picks up starfish 

and throws back to sea

we pick up snails,

one by one, 

and place them in the grass. 

Setting out to slime, 

suddenly they fly, 

airborne beneath fingers like claws 

grasping their shells. 

They curl up underneath,

as soon as they are set down. 

Are they thanking their stars

that the 'birds' that caught them

were too stupid to eat them? 

Where are they headed, 

these sluggish beasts, 

carrying their worldly possessions 

on their backs,

narrowly missing that tyre, 

this squeaky shoe, that pointed heel? 

Do they know 

what there is on the other side? 

Or does their journey matter more 

than their destination, 

and if so, 

have we helped or hurt them by moving them out of the path? 

Like 3D question marks,

they move. 

Their homes look so sturdy, 

yet with one step of our boot

they crack 

their bodies reduced to lifeless slime

mixed in with bits of shell. 

Do we too appear so fragile 

to those great gods above us,

who perhaps spill a cup of tea

and wash our homes away, 

or step somewhat heavily 

and crack the ground we tread on? 

Let's pick up the snails 

and put them away 

when we can.