Smoothed by many currents, many tides,
Buffing it with all that sand
As the waves cycle through,
A cool fleshy lump of life
Lifts a finger
To get the weather report
On the motion of the seas;
Lifts a hand to grab morsels
From the smorgasbord passing by.
And deep within the briny, sweet pulp
A tiny blemish enters,
Creating a dimple
In its silken, delicate skin.
And the seed of sand --
Like the pea under the princess's mattress --
Worries the oyster,
As it turns and turns the fragment,
Bathing it in tears,
Coating it with slime,
Layer upon layer of pain and angst,
Rubbing it like worry beads
Until it is polished to a fine luster,
And now this irritant emerges: a pearl.
In a lifetime of imperfections
Can we make even a single pearl?