Seretta Martin
Strolling down the shore I find smooth
vintage veterans of the surg and flow
afloat in shallow graves.
Some smaller ones escaped at low tide
from Neptune’s world where waves
pounded them into submissive fragments
cast aside like orphans on the shore.
I hear voices call to me, “Pick me, I’m the one.”
Neptune, consistent, wave upon wave,
ever present, moment by moment,
floats shells of mussel, oyster and coquina clam
toward a banal future.
I rescue a few, safe in my pocket, suspended
in time. My fingers stroke each shell
to know its journey and rest from mine.