Émile has a jar of slugs on the porch
climbing a lettuce leaf under a tinfoil roof.
“J’ai trouvé trois!” He’s excited. I’m
not about to tell him what I’m seeing
when I look under the new shrubs in our wild place.
Slugs. Long. Stretched out. Fathers. Mothers.
Brothers. Sisters. Cousins. Enjoying twilight.
There are plenty on our porch and off.
These are not among the endangered creatures.
Neither are ants or earwigs in this garden.
Neither are hummingbirds or bluejays here,
looking for secret ways to enter the woods,
feed their young. Neither are bees bumbling
among the blossoms. Here at high summer
everything lives and makes way for more.
Plenty plenty plenty jumps up in every colour,
opens, closes. We worship it hourly, believers.