Snail Thoughts

Who knows what a snail thinks
as it sits immobile for countless hours.
Is it contemplating its umbillicus
like the Hindus and their navels?
Is it thinking of the universal echoes of its
shell:
the whirlpool, tornado; the petals of a daisy;
the double helix; the unicorn’s mythical horn;
the Cosmos?
Does the snail count Fibonachi’s numbers
as its own Golden Spiral expands?
Quickly when young, the whorls enlarge:
1,2,3,5,8, 13, 21.
Eventually the gargantuan calculations
become as heavy as the shell
and make the snail so ponderously slow.
There’s the angle to permutate,
the degree of keel, the height of the spire,
the opening of the mouth, the flare of the lip.
Endless equations to muse upon
as complex as the architect’s draft
composer’s crescendo or Mandelbrot set.
Does the snail eternally wonder
where its better nature lies?
Neither male nor female, but both.
No personality conflict, or gender
discrimination.
Both halves of a whole, at one with itself,
or schizophrenic in the extreme?
Symmetrical and asymmetrical, thus neither:
opposite and complimentary,
hard and soft, inside out and outside in.
A paradox of fleshy parts
or a harmony, a duality,
like yin and yang.
Does it wonder why its not revered,
worshipped for its perfect spiral,
celebrated for its bisexuality,
idolised as a fusion of opposites, symbolic of
unity and equality;
macrocosm and microcosm
contained within a shell?