A spiral staircase stands with deadly gaps
suggesting falls into the endless dark,
and lanterns scatter shifting shadows,
so we prefer to grope with tight-closed eyes.
We think we capture secrets in a shell,
with formulae to measure all creation,
we stand outside nature with protractors,
our broken pencils drawing human hearts.
Or worse, we take a compass to our soul
or weigh it with a feather on a scale;
we search among the stars for our Designer,
speeding the day that we meet face to face.
Humans often want answers to the unknowable and try to measure the unmeasurable through science or spirituality. But wouldn’t it be nice sometimes just to admire the beauty of a snail?