I looked out the kitchen window and saw this fine fellow (gal?) walking up our driveway.
Where did he come from? (There was mud between his toes.)
Where was he going? (His determination was singular.)
After admiring his geometric shell, his sturdy legs, his glaring eye, I put him in the damp "lily forest" of the garden out back.
I'm trying to write a poem about our vistor, but there is not a shareable draft yet. In its stead, here is my all-time favorite poem by the former Poet Laureate, Kay Ryan:
Who would be a turtle who could help it?
A barely mobile hard roll, a four-oared helmet,
she can ill afford the chances she must take
in rowing toward the grasses that she eats.
Her track is graceless, like dragging
a packing-case places, and almost any slope
defeats her modest hopes. Even being practical,
she's often stuck up to the axle on her way
to something edible.