Poem: Shells

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Shells lay washed up on the shore,

Little reminders of the marine creatures they once contained.

Many of them have neat holes bored into them;

They’re probably done by nimble seabirds.

Not the seagulls that fly high above and break the clam to break the shield,

But small salty and feathery apparitions, butterflies of their own right.

Shells are skeletons.

I used to think the shells are a treasure to be buried in a deep hole,

The insides are iridescent as pearls.

Now I know these are sad corpses needing a grave.

Or when you build towers out of them for sand castles,

The stacks are merely catacombs, deserving respect.