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To a Conch Shell

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Caked in a delicate shroud of sand,
The conch shell lies in the palm of my hand.
I lovingly rinse off its gritty cover,
The sea’s touch as gentle as that of a mother.
The conch shell is quiet; its beauty discreet
And easily crushed by careless feet—
Oh, why must this diamond, its top gently curled,
Be fated a victim of seashore world?
But the intact are a joy to behold!
Their peaks neatly pointed, their sides smooth and cold….
The ebony shells are a glorious sight;
So are the coral pink, gleaming and bright.
Hold a conch to your ear, and pause, for
You’ll hear the waves crashing against the shore.
I lay the shell in the sand and walk off with a sigh—
It’s a pearl—just ignored by most passersby.



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