Sanibel Island.


Sanibel Island.  


Sanibel Island
where dolphins frolic

with the waist high waders
and beachcombers discover
the floor of it's
ocean waters
are littered with shells.

Some alive and

some also vacant
they lie in huge piles
awaiting eager hands.


Silver dollars
fill it's banks
with treasures

that move
tiny fibers on
their undersides
in the palm of your hand.

I always toss
the live ones
back like frisbees
to the sea.

There are enough

dead ones
to make me a rich man.

Warm waters

lap at you
where a lovers kiss
holds a salty tang
that haunts long after.

The sun is an orb
of tropical delight

that toasts you gently
far from the equator.

I dove till
I was breathless
bringing up conch shells
as big as my hand
and other lovely
shells with perfect points.

Uneroded by the
seas that keep
sanding away
all that is
and was
and ever will be.

I am there now
a small part of me
has taken refuge
in a tiny shell.

In the aqua

waters I doze
tiny children

pick me up
and gaze with wonder
at my colors
my whorls.


At least until

I wiggle my fleshy
attachment that helps me
grip the bottom
then they shriek
and toss me back
to the cool waters
and the green

glowing depths
that ensconce me.

it is a good

place to leave
a part of one's soul
there are many
vacant shells here
and it is always perfection.

Sanibel tolls memories
within the hollows of it's
dunes and shells
and so I linger
in the echoes
of it's charm.




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