Serpents

A poem by Elizabeth Rhett Woods

In spring, the viper sloughs its skin,
a fine parchment for scholars
to write on
whatever
their muse dictates,
whatever
sprightly spirits

visit them, intoxicate
their molecules shivering
in their brains, their thin
calculating hands transcribe
old documents describing dreams,
the myths of heretics, saints,
and outlaws;

the serpent’s enduring companionship
in the crypt.

Serpents present, past, and future
slithering through the garden where I sit
contemplating temptations I never
attempted to avoid.
My way meandered
like an old river; an old snake
weaving a cool mid-day enchantment
—blue shadows hiding
the sliding scales which measure
first things, only, once
you’re done with that
—here’s the next
conundrum coiling at your feet,
drawing ancient symbols in the dirt,
ouroboros, the sideways eight, snake
with its head in its mouth, twisting
destiny and history into a Mobius strip,
its two-sided single sinuosity slipping
along continuously, it seems—
even as the past disintegrates

behind us—even as
it’s being created, second
by second, a sheer cliff
crumbles at our heels.

But I have no fear
of falling backwards;
I stand on a knife edge,
perfectly balanced,
if a little unhinged,

realizing how ‘now’ is almost nil,
a spell so thin, it’s a wonder
we have room to breathe between
time gone, and time yet to be,
we all exist,
temporarily—