Seashells

[addy]

I pick love
like I pick seashells,
plain and small
and worth less than a dime.

They do not shine nor weigh
and bask not in splendor,
but hide in repose,
bare, weatherworn,
true.

I pick joy
like I pick seashells,
scattered underfoot
common as dirt stones.

They wash in endless
with the ragged tide,
each shape a gift,
each chip a sight.

And with modest breath
and caring deed
I wish only to rest and bleach
like weathered shells
with pieces spread
by quiet measured embrace;
drifting always back
in noiseless soft
to chalky, salt-white shore.