The first time I bent down,
and studied a small snail,
tiny, tiny, tiny,
so slowly, so slowly, so slowly,
it traveled.

I took a pencil,
trying to speed it up,
run, run, run,
So slowly, so slowly, so slowly,
it traveled.

Still.

From that day,
I knew small things moved slow,
how, how, how,
so slowly, so slowly, slowly,
I traveled.

I saw a snail yesterday,
it halted so fast,
stopped, stopped, stopped,
so fast, so fast, so fast,
It stopped.

I touched it,
but its head poked back into the shell,
disappear, disappear, disappear,
so fast, so fast, so fast,
it stopped.

Still.

From that day,
I knew that small things didn’t move at all,
frozen, frozen, frozen,
so fast, so fast, so fast,
I stopped.

I saw a snail today,
It wouldn’t come out of its shell,
hid, hid, hid,
so long, so long, so long,
It was gone.
I took one look,
I didn’t want to be gone,
gone, gone, gone,
for so long, so long, so long,
so I squished the snail.

Still.

Forever.