A woman picks up shells, contained
Discarding the broken, the stained
Nothing for her can be marred  

So too in life, we discard
The broken, the blemished, the stained
And all those who won’t be contained  

We seek out the pure
Who hold some allure
Of a perfection that can’t be attained  

Pick up now the soul-fractured shell
And listen to the stories it tells
Of waves and of wind
Of brushes with fins
And mysteries of sand and of swell