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MotionLike an ancient town buried underground for thousands of years that is just now waking up, the snails creep across the garden under moonlight as dazzling as sunlight in summer. The tops of their shells flash like the diamond beads of a queen's crown on a festival evening. Their soft wet bodies glide, trembling with tenderness. Their antennas rise toward the sky to catch the waves of strange sounds. What secret language, happy or sad, is calling the snails?The moonlight is quiet, the trees are quiet. The snails creep over sleeping grass and fallen leaves. Their bodies glide over sharp-cold bits of broken glass. I can't tell whether they cry or curse. What I hear is the sound of water, rising to flood the moonlit night. The snails hid in banana plants, in thorn-bushes. Awake now, they silently slip away. Is my garden their native land, or the next garden, or still another garden? Are they running away from their native land, or finding their native land? It doesn't matter: I sing a song tonight because their departure is as marvellous as a dream, or a festival evening. The last snail creeps over the old wall surrounding my garden. As the top of its shell disappears, the last diamond light of the queen's crown fades away. The snails leave glittering streams of light in their paths, and the streaming stars change position in the sky. Behind the window of my house tonight, I whisper Goodbye to the snails. |
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Issue #21, July, 2001 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.