You recline in the moss,
pale flesh settled in among

cool rugs of lush green,
and a small blue snail

creeps across your shoulder.
You seem at home here:

forest spirit, conifer dryad,
rooted into cypress and cedar,

spruce and yew. The sky
fills up with droplets that want

to fall, but don’t, out of respect
for the moment shared between

the snail and the snowy shelf
of your shoulder.

This poem was originally published under the pen name Gabriel Gadfly.
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