Ode to the Seashell You, seashell, are the object of my praise. I see the rippled patterns, curved like waves. Glistening as the sun shines upon your skin, laying out like a dog during summer. Listening through your shell, the sound of the crashing waves. Filled with velvet dust, plugged and stuffed. Your peel: convoluted and parched. You are ancient, dinosaurs and pyramids. You smell of the briny dry sand. The scent of summer looms through, sunscreen and crisp fruit. Your whispers are heard, charming and admirable. When we cradle your folds and polish your carapace, remembering you once were innate too. Olga Kondraros
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