Here. Gone. 

It is painful to watch the snail
as it slimes across the expanse of barren
concrete, slow, oh so painfully slow,
its brown body writhing with each mere millimeter
of gain, its ochre shell dragged along,
the dead weight of protection.

To watch too closely is torture, a test
of patience, the wonder of its journey lost
in the wait, in the expectations and hunger to see it arrive,
until finally you look away,
surrender for a few moments
and when you look back,
it is gone,
a silvery trail all that marks its passing.

About this poem

Patience. With those around us. With ourselves. The journey is happening, even when it seems it is not.

Tom