beneath this shell
is a soft pink blanket,
hiding a treasure longing to be
polish'd, buff'd from a timid gem
to a breath-taking bauble
yearning to be exposed and gently blown,

such undulation yields right of way
to a swelling song tide
a rolling vanilla undercurrent,
awaiting the crashing wave
that will push it inland and wash' d ashore
to be scooped up by eager divers
craving the taste of sea salt
as they linger at the edge
of a sparkling blacksand beach. . .  

© 2005 cynth’ya lewis reed

All rights reserved
 
 

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