Sea glass wet and shining in the sun
Picked and packed in a plastic bag
Sand rinsed off then they are left to dry
And sit collecting dust
The colours dim
The frost seems dirty
And each shape seems slightly off
What to do with these pieces chosen
Over hours of time, sore legs, and a curved neck
Eventually they'll become something, or not
Broken pieces run so ragged they
Can no longer cut
Or contain something
Garbage that aspired to be something
Gentled by waves and salt
Soothed into pieces of peace
They might need another cleaning
And look nicer in the light
They were chosen and were enjoyed in the choosing at the very least
They will sit for a time
Until the time when they are given use again
To sit with meaning, somewhere.
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