I found a perfect shell on the beach, all the edges
were smooth, the corners just right. She was the palest
pink, like the sky before sun appears, and her
ridges were spaced just right, as if carved by a sculptor.
No sand clung to her, for she was too smooth to mar.
As I held her to my cheek, and she whispered,
“Empty inside.” Did she speak of herself?
Or me? I slipped her in my pocket,
as a way to hide.
Talking to the Clouds 