Endlessly spilling into place the salt of earth,
The hurt of millions years of wounds
Which wept it all into existence;
Enshrouding myriad unknowns 
In surfaces that glisten,
Many taken from above in fists,
Demanding we atone.
And yet, benevolent she seems,
When peddling her shells and stones,
As keepsakes for our trysts.
We don't believe it, but she knows,
All will come back to the sea.