The Seashell
“What do you see?” asked the cheerful old man,
As he placed a bright shell in the little girl’s hands.
“I see a shell!” she answered with glee,
“Or maybe a cup or a little white tree.”
The eyes that were thrilled to identify things,
Saw resemblance to clouds, mushrooms, butterfly wings.
“What do you see?” asked the wrinkled old man,
As he placed a fine shell in a young teacher’s hand.
“I see biology, science, and cells;
An ocean of knowledge inspired by shells.
I see a career in the study of seas,
Research grants, books, and distinguished degrees.”
“What do you see?” asked the bright-eyed old man,
As he placed a small shell in a mother’s lithe hand.
“I see long vacations spent out on the beach,
With my children who love to explore and to reach,
They search the tidepools for shells, agates, and rocks,
That come home as memories we keep in a box.”
“What do you see?” asked the quiet old man,
As he placed a pale shell in a veteran’s hand.
“I see white beaches,” he said with a sigh,
“Where smoke makes it hard to tell sea from the sky.
Where other shells — metal ones — litter the sand,
On a night when men fight over bare strips of land.”
“What do you see?” asked the tall, lean old man,
As he placed a cool shell in a traveler’s hand.
“I see questions in how it was made and was found,
And where it has traveled and over what ground.
I wonder who found it and why they were there,
There’s more we don’t know than we know and can share.”
“What do you see?” asked the gentle old man,
As he placed a thin shell in a patient’s thin hand.
“I see life and creation,” she said, filled with awe,
Noting tiniest details that no one else saw.
“If one tiny shell contains so much beauty,
I blush to imagine what God plans for me.”
