Inside each twisting shell,Will a tiny creature dwell,
And when its life is done,
The shell is ours, what fun!
All that's left to do at last,
Is walk the beach, find it fast,
For others with the same desire,
Scour the sand, and never tire.
The perfect shell, lucky catch
Nothing else could ever match,
Our finding at the tidal stream,
The collector's hope and
sheller's dream.
Poem taken from Florida's Fabulous Seashells: and Other Seashore Life, by Winston Williams, copyright 1988 by World Publications, page 1,poet not named.
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