Finding seashells with my four-year-old -- a poem of sorts

No souvenir shop finds, these shells.
Broken in pieces, picked over by seagulls and punded down by waves.
Even the whole ones are wholly ordinary, small, with no unusual colors or markings.
No wonder they were passed by, passed over by tourists and collectors.

But this was my son's first trip to the beach, first time to see the ocean.
To him, each fragment of shell was precious, beautiful, worth saving.
He placed them in his plastic bucket, selecting them with care,
envisioning sharing them with his pre-school classmates.

Through his eyes, I could see discarded shells with a new perspective.
Who is to say what is beautiful or worth keeping.
Beauty is not solely contained in perfect forms.
In the midst of what seems ordinary, love and wonder create exquisite radiance.

So these bits of shells now live in our home, reminders of a day at the beach.
They are far more valuable than purchased mantle-piece masterpieces,
because these are the shells that delighted my son, filled him with joy and amazement,
and led him to hold my hand and say, "We're friends, right?" Treasures beyond measure.