In the morning a pure speck of red
Interrupts scrubbed white-
Signal of time,
of instincts held at bay,
of age-old templates unused.
The moon was full last night,
I could see the snails, gradual
And unaware in the wet sheen
Of the sidewalk. Where do they go
When the sun is out? They know
To appear when it rains,
But cannot avoid my callous footsteps,
Blind in the moist shadows.
The waning moon reveals
Opportunity again--to choose, to thrive,
To begin, opportunity to
Place oneself squarely within the borders
Of age-old templates, snug
And expected, scrubbed white
And peppered with slime and shattered
Shell baking quietly in the sun.
Archiving all of these memories
2 years ago