Beach Shells

I could take you to a beach nearby..
There is a two mile walk along a pulsing estuary
In order to earn your visit.
It is no great sacrifice.

Where the beach begins
There is a rocky outcrop;
It anchors the sand and dunes at one end.
At the far end,
Keeping its tenuous grip on a small mound of land
A tombolo, worthy of a barefoot walk.

The beach smiles up some nights
Mirroring the crescent moon.

At the start of the beach
To the right of the outcrop
Is a great swath of slipper shells.
And though the beach lies alluringly ahead
This mound of mollusks
Now empty husks
Rattles in the waves,
Calling even the casual passer;
A boy with a bucket, a girl with a dog
To stop for a moment (or an hour)
And lose themselves in this spectacle.

Playing the role of the boy
I pick up a shell,
Smooth and cool
Like a hard boiled egg split lengthwise
Well-formed and intact.
One of many.
Is this what millions looks like?

And as if this shell could converse
I say out loud,
“You made this case,
And this case made you.”

From beach to pocket to nearby window sill,
This shell, my friend, still speaks to me,
And shares itself so generously.