And so I will cling like a snail
To a branch, be tentative, testing
The air, the breeze, antennae waving,
And I will glide forward slowly, take my ease
At a pace more conducive to my height & weight.

And like the beetle I will carry
The sun in my jaws, its solar rays
Through the heart of winter's ice,
My black back hard,
A carapace of shield, of roof,
And my sun will roar but will not burn
And by its light I will roll my life on.

And I will be cherry-red
All ripe and ready, not yet
Sucked dry or taken in, but sweet & round,
The heart within a small red stone
Unhurting & unharmed
And my flesh will thrive & shine 
Until I fruit & colour all my days
With red, stain red my mouth,
My fingers sticky with life's sweetnesses.

And look, here I have a watering can, old
But brimming with clean water heavy in the hand
Fresh & cold, a ready deluge for dry earth
And from a soil too long fallow
I will coax my flowers to grow.

I will be gardener -
Bring on my own slow show -
And one year in the Spring
When all the young flowers bloom
And the snail is slowly waving
And the beetle bears its load
My hand will fill with orange and red
And make my garden grow.
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