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Shells

28 Jan

She walks along the weaving foam,
waves bright under the full moon,
picking up shells,
perfect shells,
white shells,
bright shells,
leaving footprints to
fill with glistening sea.

She wants them all.
Each shell, every shell.

Then, when her hand, her arm, are full,
returns them,
one by one,
in splendid moonlit arcs,
again to the sea,
walking away with one,
only one,
the first one.

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1 Comment

Posted by on January 28, 2013 in Nature, Poetry

 

Tags: ,

One response to “Shells

  1. Craig R. Smith

    January 29, 2013 at 12:22 AM

    Perfection. Truly.

     

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