Sea Shell

Like a twisted dagger or an antique nail
It rests lightly in my hand
But in this, there is no cause to fear.
Twisted, wound, like a woman’s
Hair, it is soft, but strong.
Worn by the sand and the sea.
It is not fragile
Like some of its kind. A
Whirlwind of gray and brown and white
Colors
Thrown together
With
Seeming indifference
But I know this cannot be true
There is tenderness in this design
There is love in its scent of the sea
There are stories in the whisper of sound
As it glides through my hand
As my fingers caress
Its surface.
And I wonder about those stories
I wonder about the secrets
It will never tell.
It smells of salt, of crustaceans
Of a world
So foreign
Yet so very much alive
And real.
My mind remembers the taste of salt
But there is none here.
I expected it would have lingered
Yet it is gone.
It is not hiding in a crevice
It is not clinging
To a spire.
And my heart cries.
There is such aching beauty
In its captivity
So far from home.

 
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