the crunch of needles, nettles
underfoot
their jagged edges
like poorly written cursive
join to form a shape that looks so much
like me

I jump
startled
as my boot rips through the water that has collected amidst moss and dirt
scattering this
illusion of mirroring on the forest
floor

I sit down
feeling the dampness seep through my
(cheap) skirt and
carefully, I collect the needles and nettles that I have
crunched and I arrange them to make a
snail

I see the raw edges of this elementary art come to
life and
slowly, the snail begins to pull
away from this spot where I have sat
I poke at it curiously

The poor thing
hardly a snail at all
more of a shadow, really
withdraws into its small shell and suddenly
there I am again
written in dirt

I am a woman
always hiding in dirt.