May the poems be
the little snail’s trail.
Everywhere I go,
every inch: quiet record
of the foot’s silver prayer.
I lived once.
It was here.
~Aracelis Girmay “Ars Poetica”
What do I leave behind as I pass through to what comes next?
It might be as slick and silvery and random as a snail trail — hardly and barely there, easily erased.
I might leave behind the solid hollow of an empty shell, leading to infinity, spiraling to nothing and everything.
I pray, grateful, for a legacy of words and images;
I notice the wonder I journey through.
I was here.