I balance my shell, this borrowed security so easily plucked. Why do they poke and prod – curious enemies? Scurry. Tide’s out, time to clean house. Push out the sand, unload the baggage, move on – hurry to the next hole.
Safety shell I carry, a cool space with curved edges, lit with grace. This pen – my sanity – my self place, a broom to sweep away the sand and dirt. Mercy massages my tired thoughts, sooths my aches.
This shell, sometimes heavy, other times turned up – a buoy, I ride the waves. Uncertainties splash, and I retreat inside. My umbilical ink to the Spirit provides nutrients of inspiration.
The sand it irritates me, now. Cramped – my shell, it doesn’t seem to fit. I’ve grown and didn’t notice. I must move on to something bigger. It’s scary to leave, but Faith insists. She lives in here with me. She cleans the corners of doubt. Mercy, too, crowds in. I must find a larger shell – my guests insist we move.
I grab my pen, closets full of stuff, we leave to find a larger view.