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.