Snake

Look here: a snake is rustling by,
muted diamonds on its back,
barely moving among
grass blades, tongue
flickering out, then in,
silently from this height,
quiet enough to be
unremarkable.

I do remark on it.
There are many reasons not
to speak of it but
I’m a poet. It’s what
I do —

I spare
a moment for that snake
and its progress. In a minute
I may be gone from this plane
but a snake should be seen;
it may keep people off kilter,
it may force some into silence,
and it may push a person to choose
to hulk away through trouble,
like a snake.

Maybe I will do all of those things,
or none of them. Maybe I will leave
a snake where it is.

Maybe there’s no
snake; maybe I dreamed it all
while lying in grass ablaze with
midday fire, imagining what
might appear to me
if I were to lie still:
diamond backed,
if one looks closely enough;
smoothly done, if one
brushes the dirt from his hands
before moving on;
quietly, needing no remark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T