Sin Like Slugs

A garden poem

I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been dipping into poetry (probably) or if it’s the bourbon I had while watching Yellowstone with my wife (likely), but I scribbled down a poem. I don’t fancy myself a poet. That said, the Muse struck after putting the chickens up for the night while tending to my garden as the sun set. So enjoy (or don’t, I’m not your mother) a short one today.

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a slug crawling on a green leaf in the dark, Devon MacKay. Source: Unsplash

Slugs move so slowly 
but always seem to 
catch us by surprise. 
You never spot ‘em 
en route, only when 
you lift a branch to 
water and find it 
comfortable in 
the shade meant for a 
gourd, munching on a 
leaf meant for the same. 
Annoyed, you pick it 
up with bare fingers 
and toss it in the 
grass and go on with 
your work, but the slime 
will not leave you. Not 
even a bath for 
your body works. No 
sweet smelling soap with 
carefully measured,
fabricated, and
calculated scent 
can get the slick gone.
You wonder where it 
came from so you go 
back out to where you 
found it and alas, 
glossy in the light
of sunset, a trail 
marked its cursèd path
across your soil. Slick.

Slick and slow as sin.

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Here’s another piece — an essay in this case, no poetry — inspired by time in my garden: