for shells
rochelle holt
Are we all shells
some smooth and whole
deep or shallow
broken and ragged
pink or irridescent
asymmetrical
fleshtoned
greystriped
with one eye
or none
pale and yellow
closed&giving birth
or being born
after a dream
young, mature or
aged and old
shattered and torn
slender or full
petite or tall
closed to caress
or open to touch
sand clinging to an ear
footprints on our backs
coiled or unwound
holding ants or seaweed
on our tongues
splashing with water
sunning on shore
shaded by driftwood
poked by terns
heavy or light
blue or black
mindful or without
sense numb to sun
in love with moon
cleansed by rain
soiled by gypsies
dragging their heels
across our brains
or bodies
silverfrosted
like ash or violet-tinged
beads breasts lips
buried or elevated
in a mound
isolated on a throne
checkered bones
beige earth tones
blending us
with sisters or brothers
mothers or fathers
lost, our heatrts,
or found? Are we all shells
fragments blown by wind
dancers choreosinging
a duet with symphony of sky wind water exposed
restless and bold like
sign-language, hieroglyphics,
the sound of the sea
for one or none
shadows of pelicans
clothed in silk
or ivory satin
pure cotton
naked lonely fulfilled,
or have we known
all the moments
and none
moods from bliss to despair?
Are we merely there
like children
and other people
waiting for time
to whisper something
of our nature
or perhaps the other way
'round elements telling
the echo to a seashell
question rising and falling
whitecaps and tides
changing matter of factly
not fate through art or
craft but
karma
in the shells
our shells
she sells
seashells
not me or
you who sieze
a shell or soul
adrift on sea or sand
and dare not see
the separate beauty
of a single
shell.
