When the door opens on the old white ice box
he peels back the Reynolds
aluminum foil, covering the prize he’s purchased
and reveals the blue guys from the sea.
We’ve been waiting for awhile, well a year
and I see myself.
But don’t tell him, or anyone.
Timing is important.
Well it’s everything in fact.
And seasons come and go.
It’s their season now.
The soft shells are ready, and I am too.
I see myself in the metal pan under the foil.
In them, in this perfect state of in between.
Change made them perfect.
Life stopped for them, perfection frozen
At this time of molting.
I hear the excitement in his voice.
The eyes stare up, the pairs of beady blues
Row on row.
We know this soft shelled state.
We know it well.
And we know the seasons too, the ones of change.
Are there really any other.
And it is where we live most of our days,
The shedding and the growing
The softening and release.
Gone are layers, left to float ashore.
I want to thank them for the gift.
An offering, a delicacy.
For stopping at the perfect time
And showing me the joy
that shedding brings
A perfect state of in between.