poem
©ESR 2026

The Very Ambitious Snail

The snail announced his intentions
on a Tuesday.

No one asked.

No one was prepared.

“I shall climb the mountain.”

The beetles stopped chewing.

The worms stopped wiggling.

A nearby cricket actually lowered his newspaper.

“The mountain?” asked the cricket.

“Yes.”

“The large one?”

“Obviously.”

The cricket looked toward the horizon.

The mountain sat there,
massive and ancient,
its peak hidden by clouds.

The snail nodded confidently.

“That one.”

A long silence followed.

Finally, the worm cleared his throat.

“It is very far away.”

“Correct.”

“And very tall.”

“Also correct.”

“And you are… a snail.”

The snail considered this.

“I am.”

The worm waited.

The snail waited.

The cricket waited.

Eventually the worm asked,

“Do those facts concern you at all?”

“No.”

The worm sighed.

The cricket folded his newspaper.

The beetles resumed chewing.

The meeting appeared concluded.

But the snail had already begun moving.

Slowly.

Very slowly.

Painfully slowly.

The kind of slowly that causes continents to become impatient.

Yet he moved.

One glistening inch at a time.

Days passed.

Then weeks.

Then months.

The mountain remained exactly where it had always been.

The snail remained considerably closer to the cabbage patch than the mountain.

Critics emerged.

“The plan lacks urgency.”

“The timeline seems optimistic.”

“The mountain may not even know you’re coming.”

The snail ignored them all.

He continued.

Forward.

Forward.

Forward.

One morning, nearly a year later,
a young caterpillar found him.

“Excuse me,” she said.

“Are you the snail climbing the mountain?”

“I am.”

The caterpillar looked around.

The mountain was still very, very far away.

“You know you might never get there.”

The snail smiled.

A small smile.

A patient smile.

A smile that had survived weather and ridicule and distance.

“Perhaps.”

The caterpillar tilted her head.

“Then why keep going?”

The snail looked toward the horizon.

Toward the impossible thing.

Toward the ridiculous thing.

Toward the thing everyone said could not be done.

And he answered:

“Because I have already traveled farther than the snail who stayed home.”

The caterpillar thought about that for a long time.

The mountain remained enormous.

The snail remained tiny.

The distance remained absurd.

But somehow—

the dream seemed a little less impossible.

The snail continued.

Slowly.

Very slowly.

With absolutely unreasonable confidence.

And if you happen to visit that mountain someday,
look carefully.

You may find a small silver trail
winding toward the clouds.

Not because the snail arrived quickly.

But because he never stopped.