Moon Snail Shell

Plump, pink-white, 
you spiral to a dark center 
with a tiny tip like a nipple. 

Your rotunda stuns,
a full moon. Your aperture 
forms a half moon.

For years I saw you 
as swirled beauty, not the coffin 
of a softer self.

Did not think how you once nestled 
a living animal that had heart, 
kidney, tongue to savor prey.

Did not ponder the way 
your armor hardened as you grew, 
how one snail worked 

its whole life building this edifice
of lime, this carapace—
only to surrender it.

Did not understand that
winds would refine you 
into a handful of sand.