Sometimes I am at war with my garden. Not with the plants necessarily, but with what the garden brings out in me. This week, on top of 100+ degree weather, I have been battling the snails that have taken over with abandon.
If there is an afterlife, I know that I will be there surrounded by all the snails that I have mushed, smashed, thrown, crushed, broken, splintered, kicked, and salted.
|Quick sketch of a snail. They move so slowly, but they don't stay in one position for long.|
This is my ode to snails:
Snails devouring a bush
A five-foot tall bush, mind you
Their shells hanging from every branch
In clusters like brown flowers
Ready to open.
Plucking off each one, hundreds of ones,
I feel their shells soft between my fingers.
I know I could crush them or throw
Them against the wall.
Instead I watch, hideously,
As they bubble in the salt pools
I lay down for them.
My apologies to you, snails,
For my torturous ways.
You just overpowered
My will to be kind.
You outnumbered me a thousand to one.
What was I supposed to do?
My poor plant was crying out for help.
If the weather turns cooler, and the snail season abates (with a little help from SLUGGO), I am sure that my normal, cool, calm self will return so that I can once more enjoy the fruits of my garden labors without my murderous side bubbling to the surface.
But have you ever seen a banana slug?