Softest of Mornings

Softest of mornings, hello.
And what will you do today, I wonder,
    to my heart?
And how much honey can the heart stand, I wonder,
    before it must break?

This is trivial, or nothing: a snail
    climbing a trellis of leaves
        and the blue trumpets of its flowers.

No doubt clocks are ticking loudly
    all over the world.
I don’t hear them. The snail’s pale horns
    extend and wave this way and that
as her finger-body shuffles forward, leaving behind
    the silvery path of her slime.

Oh, softest of mornings, how shall I break this?
How shall I move away from the snail, and the flowers?
How shall I go on, with my introspective and ambitious life?