Snail
a poem of recognition
As a child, I lived in many houses, twelve in seventeen years.
I was accustomed to turmoil, chaos and reorder,
the rhythm of packing, carrying, unpacking
all of my winnowed things.
I am ever drawn toward containers:
painted boxes, baskets, bowls, empty shells and fossils
all with the capacity to hold
beloved things, soft bodies and time.
In college, a friend gave me a small wicker case with handles.
I carefully placed treasures in there, artifacts from my life,
a collection of talismans I could carry easily,
unpack in any hospitable space.
Name it “home.”
Many times I have held garden snails in my hand, always fascinated.
I watch the slow emergence, each slender eyestalk sensitively unfurled;
the slide of ruffled body in my hand, feeling its way
toward moist, green coolness.
My eyes follow the perfect, spiral geometry of helixed shell,
a constant quiet promise of shelter.
