After high tide, a new shoreline.
If a hand shaped its heart...
a fist or shell full of life?
A tree's rings transposed;
delicate greens and brown
that spiral to opalescence.
Heavier than expectation.
Mathematical perfection
must be a burden to lug.
How could any creature
live up to the shell's beauty?
Seas tally the years' rub
in siliconned grains: one;
one, two, three, five...
But sand will never fill;
it ripples in and out –
a shingle current
that grits an empty belly.
Barren, sounds echo.
Five, eight, thirteen...
the shell doesn't count
how closely 'numbness'
follows 'numbers'.
Others observe, measure,
calculate the science
of surge and ebb,
of growth and grit.
Charted, figures more precise
than the days needed
for hatching, gestation,
or time's slow passing
after a tiny life is gone.
