Crush

It starts as a snail shell,
Cold and coiled, below the hips,
A blip so insignificant;
Now, six years after the fact,
When our laughter breathes heat
To fill that mold, to hatch
A snake, a traitor
That lifts its blunt-nosed head
To yawn as if it wakes
From a sleep so deep
We thought it dead.

Then let the hunt begin--
The statue come alive, we find,
Has set its mind to make a certain trip,
And what first tread softly
(And carried no stick)
Steps hale and hearty now,
A strong grip on its wits,
With years of quiet reruns
Of the same, specific outcome
To keep cool a hot head.

So set on its path,
Kept directly on track
By grit and steady hands
And a stiff upper lip,
Led by a flickering,
Two-pronged tongue,
With blatant disregard
For the portents of destruction--
Potent caution and heady fear--
So hell-bent on victory,
On its way to cross a line
That, once so distant,
Now seems near.

There will be no catching of
Or creeping up,
No hope to outrun
A creature on its way
To cross a gap that
For six years' sleep
Reached infinitely,
Now with every second
Is easier to leap.