Apathetic
Bleached shells catch the sun
and throw it back again,
pearled cup-hearts smoothly clean,
long ago picked bare,
the forgotten feasts of ghost birds.
Waves lick forlorn sands
but cannot coax those dispassionate shells
to frolic in the happy surf;
empty, they choose the dry beach
just out of reach of happiness.
©Faye Lanham Gibson, May 5, 2015
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