

THINGS OF THE SEA BELONG TO THE SEA
The shell in my hand, no bigger than my fist,
Is closing down because it must exist.
Hinged like a drawbridge, its embattled gate
Guards the glow of its inner ornament—
The ghost of the oyster that activates the pearl—
The soul within, the world without the pale.
I run my fingers over its grooves and scars
Encrusted with lichen and barnacle and weed—
Medals won in combat, the outer war
It wages with the sea. I feel the tide
Surge around my ankles — on every side
Suction, pressure, a tugging intensity
Heightened by the grip of what I hold in my hand,
Surrender gently, and step back up on land.
(
D. George)
Photos: Ilha de Santa Catarina
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