Nautilus

I walked barefoot on the Pacific beach,
the sand a chill, the sun a dying coal.
Waves whispered secrets to the rocks,
and there it was—
a spiral waiting in the breath of the tide.

Its surface shone,
etched with lines curling inward,
like a road curving toward a hidden center.
A nautilus, hollow but alive
with whispers I could hear if I listened.

I filled my palm with it, held it like treasure,
pressed its mouth against my ear,
and the world folded onto itself.

The ocean’s song gave way
to murmurs of years unspooled:
a garden where I stood, hands aged but steady,
a storm that cracked my voice but left me standing,
a room full of faces I loved,
and some I’d lost.

The shell told me of the future as a spiral—
each step an inward fold,
each fold a choice,
until I’d meet myself at the center.

I put down the shell,
its whispers still dancing in my chest.
I thought—
the looping back, the closing circle,
the self unfolding
into what it was meant to be.

The waves reached for my toes,
and I clutched the shell more tightly,
knowing the spiral would always be there,
whispering my tale back to me.