THE SNAIL

When I was younger, much older than I am now,

I spent most of my life trying to run away:

Running away from the reality of knowing:

Of knowing exactly who and what I was.

My insides would scream and howl from the pain,

The pain of pretending that nothing was wrong

While I felt my life shattering in pieces before me

Desperately trying to become the man I was running,

Running away from, desperately trying to avoid

Becoming the man I was pursuing so fiercely

And yet realizing that I wanted to become that man

If only, if only, I could avoid the inevitable consequences.

It didn’t work.

I still sometimes feel now as I felt then,\

A snail only halfway out of my shell,

Dragging my house along,

Retreating there at the first sign of trouble,

And slamming the door behind me.

I think though I am out and about more now than then,

Not making the progress I would like to make

But progressing nonetheless.

I don’t shut myself in my house as much

But keep moving forward in spite,

And those who trouble me sometimes find

That the snail can have a nasty temper when crossed,

And a painful, poisonous bite.

I live in hope

That someday I can ditch

The shell entirely.

Wouldn’t that be fun?

May 23, 2011

Chip Bergeron