may have killed the snail I sauntered over; or maybe it was too slow
curiosity consumed me as I lay, still, awake
the damp grass a haven for the gastropod family, fat and full
feeling flimsy in my hands, I grappled with the buttons on my hot pink camera
eyes pressed into the view finder.

Nevertheless, I missed living life to capture life
a dangerous game to play. Too set on photographing the way the light caught on the glass fruit bowl,
the lady next door and her gardening gloves,
the brother ruthlessly batting the ball,
the dog lapping in the sandbox turned pool,
the snail leaving behind a trail of silver silk.

Face the curiosity. Explore
it in the notches of your brain—
to the corners of the world.
Pink camera traded in, yes,
new one big and bright (but all the same)
a third eyewitness to life, not a portal to live.

I say living behind the lens, is not living at all.
Breath, walk, talk, crunch, crumple, curl.
Live a life that others want to capture,
because living first and remembering second is the way. To always
remember what you are living is no way to love your life.

The snail says he loves to hate the reckless daydreamer, irresponsible.
instead: problem solve, moment make—
capture the protests, but first march in one,
see the way they wait for work, research the problem,
notice the way he smiles, talk to him,
see the snail before it’s crushed.

Inspired by: “Curiosity” by Alastair Reid