Shells

You say seashells are beautiful, but they’re the bones of the dead washed ashore.

Flakes of salt stick to my legs as I collect these fallen comrades, sold in gift shops.

 

Not all are lost. A hermit crab searches for new digs.

He finds a smooth snail shell, discarded at sunrise, to call his new home.

 

Each shell I hold is fragile, many are broken. I make a fist and break the remains.

I lose sight of the water as I become part of the sand.

 

1/13/11

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