To a Snail

How much beyond its slow shell, easily you steam a line of light; while life casually glimmers in strain to perch upon the clover; no grace could fly clusters above - no knack but spells with this dawn.

A wet beginning; deliberately wide and edgeless in fiber and dark, your rosy flows twinkle tepidly in endless dew, sips from bottled night— yet secret paths lie aside, investigate stark green sweaters,

full of urged sounds, very near a single dew-draped pearl. Each gnarled bend stays critical, still unrolling misshapen caution shells, so dash our sod, kittens slunk, yet your image comes to glide.

Even wounds gather— your spirit spreads lace speaks—your fragrance, twisted, in sable echoes polished around; yet a close green breathe,functional hum, a simile!

• Marianne Moore