Sea, Shell, Sand

sea, shell, sand v2

Who will discuss
and miss—
misunderstand the sea?

Who will argue—
the sun rises from the sea,
no, it sets in the sea?

Who will compare—
the sea left me a grey speckled shell,
no,
the sea left me a spikey pink shell,
no,
the sea left me?

While tide waters wash
everyone’s feet alike,
slipping away each one’s footprints.
.

Time’s pestle in sea’s mortar
will grind shells’ memory of shape—
reduce it to sand,
while some shells escape to shore
whole,
ready to be found.

A barefoot child holds
a speckled, a spikey,
and others to ear,
listens and declares:
I hear the sea.
I hear the sea.
I hear the sea in each.
.

Mere body of water
we call self
builds a tower of sand
we call castle.

Tide-wound water clock
ticks in elemental notes
heard trickling through
the porous castle walls

while the salty-teared
stands aside in sightful wonder—

in fated likeness.

 

.

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