The Snake in the Garden

By Andrew R. Duckworth

The weeds tripped me
On my way to the water pail-
No, a snake, it must have been,
One that can disguise itself
As they all do,
Slithering about in silence,
Listening intently to every word
Heard by the one that lured
Ever closer to its flicking tongue
Of tense deception.
In my recollection,
I have seen that snake before-
The one that closes open doors-
Camping in the weeds
For my feet to trip on.