Hidden amid the rocks, the shells
under the seaweeds, the driftwood
sitting proudly on the sand
Clear, green, brown, or blue
smooth, cloudy, from the tumbling
rolling in the surf
churning tide
Waiting for my eyes, my fingers
falling into my bucket, bag, pocket
a shell, my hands, whichever I choose
to join others at home, treasures all
But it is the leisurely searching
lingering in the wet sand
by the water’s edge
that is the great escape
September 1, 2008
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