poem

 Sea Shelling 

We all went sea shelling

But under certain conditions:

You could only leave the beach

With one shell.

By the end of the session

You had to pick one.

The rest returned to the shifting sands 

Of life’s oaken hourglass.

My son found the perfect shell,

Better than anyone else,

And don’t anyone try to deny it

While my daughter found one

With an interesting etching

Carved on its white back 

Like an old wound

From a survived attack.

My wife couldn’t choose.

She loved them all.

In the end she picked 

Without looking— a broken one 

Which she treasured and loved

Until she was dead. 

I waded out into the ocean

And was swept away in a riptide.

The kind of shells I was looking for 

Had to be alive

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