The taste of the bitter ocean

carves the crevices, valleys, and mountains

of the seashell.

The odor of the wind

lingers on the smooth underbelly

of its face.

Its face,

a snowflake,

often is seen but never mirrored by another.

As a snowflake brings

 joy to the eye of a young child who,

endlessly curious,

yearns for the cool iciness on his feverish tongue.

But this seashell

is more than a wintry white.

It flies as a moth.

It burns as the bark of an oak tree.

The edges,

crisped in an oven,

laughs at the small pearly patches

hiding in the valleys.

It is a road.

A road that neither goes nor comes,

dancing as it turns.

A dancing shell.

Broken.

For it can only move

by the will of others.