A perfect Moon shell.
Treasure randomly tossed
by a restless sea
on the shores
of the Outer Banks. 
Shell seekers on
a lonely stretch of beach,
footprints leaving temporary evidence
of their journey.
A broken Conch,  
Jingle shells, their burnished bronze
catching the light.
And then the Moon shell.
An elusive memory tugged,
flittered away
and then came home to rest.
Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s
Gift from the Sea.
The Moon shell.
Symbol of solitude.
Of quiet time alone.
Of introspection.
Her Moon shell sat
on her desk in Connecticut;
mine on my desk on Cape Cod.