Friday, November 2, 2012

Broken shells

I think the sand and shells are the last piece of me to inhabit the office.  Thank you, Ginga.  Now I think it*s completely set for whoever comes in or goes out the door.

Years ago a friend
I have never met,
Mailed me a box
Of white South Carolina sand
In a zip-lock bag.
Tucked next to the sand
Was another bag filled
With shells she had collected
On the beach.
One or two shells are whole.
Most are broken.
I have always liked the broken ones
This week I brought the sand and shells
To my office.
They live in a clear glass
Soufflé dish
Under the lamp
Next to the entrance.
Now I see them
When I come
And go.
I am reminded
Of ocean and sand and shells,
And friends,
Even the ones I have never met
In the sometimes bleak steppes of Illinois
I am reminded of the ocean.
I see the sand and shells
When I come,
When I go.
Still I like the broken ones

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