The sea in her cajole waves like that long finger with the tip curling saying “come.”
What of the depths frightens you?
The unimagined or the seen?
I scrimped along the low tide this morning when the sea is small in her pulses and the tinkering of dissolving shells rounds about in the air in spirals. Something like little hammers beating on the hot copper to coin it. Picayune numbers that build an orchestra of jeweling bells within the waves.
In my return from the beach to dunes I collected some vacant shells to give to my nephew who has never seen the sea. And I wonder in these petty hollowed homes what questions they may stir in him. Will he shy from their forsaken obviousness, or hold them in envy for their discovery?
What of these impossible looking things that lace the tide wash always chiming at the pull of the sea.
Things armored heavily.
Swirled winkle softly horned and dissolving to white.
The single footed limpet housed in your shallow conical blight.
Shells borne of curve, or furrow, or spot,
Some wild encrusted eye beneath a mother’s pearl clot.
All these sessile lives wrung by the tides.
Just enough in the salt and spray to be alive.
Live and die in a passionless flow beneath the shallow moon’s to and fro.
And without a pang to the sufferable sky without a pang as you or I,
These labored layers at the edges of sea pass by underfoot of me.