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

Best.

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

Face-to-face.

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

Best.