How shall we understand
the purpose of night,
its blackened vaults,
moonlit columns, endless
labyrinths of tunnel?
In the shadowed garden
the slow, blind slugs
appear from nowhere
licking dew and dirt
with tiny tongues
and whose to say
their hearts, devoid
of malice or any kind
of violence, deserve
to be silenced?
The faultless night
whose roof of trees,
shimmering arcs of sky
and star, the colorless
flower that blooms for
no ones eyes but
darkness, need not be
challenged but witnessed
by candle's light as just
the paradise it seems-
the cold black pearl
of secret, blessed quiet.
3 comments:
What a beautiful ode to slugs in their silent wisdom- have you ever put your finger in front of a slug to feel his/her rough tongue taste you? They are amazing beings... hermaphrodites, I had a slug reproduce his/herself in my terrarium last summer. A lone slug became many. I love this poem.
The slugs come out at night to feed on scraps and condensation and their more profitable cousins (snails) with their little houses strapped to their backs come out in droves during the early morning hours. I actually saw a family of them- a large male, a smaller female and a tiny baby snail as they made their way together across the grass! I watched them for about an hour (my knees were killing me) but they actually were following eachother. It really does humble you that such small, seemingly insignificant creatures have value and a purposeful existence as well.
What a wonderful snail story!
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