Sea Shells

Why do we stoop down to pick up sea shells;

Or bits of ocean glass, empty and dead

Occupant free, luminous little cells 

From which all life’s brilliant spark has fled?

Fragments of toil, beloved, belabored,

These tiny homes, unwilled to heirs, picked up

And hauled to the nest of some jaybird

To clutter a window sill or front step,

Are more of a reminder than treasure,

Arbitrary until some thought seeps in, 

There lies their value, not in base pleasure,

But in the recollection of man’s sin

And the promise which binds up broken hearts

Makes a mosaic of fragmented parts.