The One Thing

A small snake rests its head
on a wandering geranium leaf.
Tucked up in a bed of greenery,
tattooed by light,
a tremulous blunt nose
and broad head-shield
rest in a dappled place,
a minutely particular trope
of paradise.

The snake eases sideways
to obscurity.

One thing is necessary:
awareness of presence.
No longer us here and snake there,
but a simple abiding,
beyond the sinewy slippage of language.