Here we go tra-la-la
Fixing the house, hammer in hand
The soles of our feet stained to match... [+]
The seashells near the ocean
where I grew up are storytellers.
Every morning, feet burning in the sand
(yellow, the sun) I run to listen
to what they have to say. They tell me
about creatures that live in darkness
so profound they make their own light.
They tell me about forgotten things:
bottles, diapers, shoes, cars, rings,
rusted metal and disintegrating paper.
They tell me about fragility, and how
that can be strength, too. When I leave
and walk back home, I remember
their voices, but not their words.