Reality

As closed as a shell
Washed on the shore
And poked by a passing toe,
As clear as
A fragment of glass,
I'll talk to you,
But choose what I say
So carefully on subjects
That interest you.

For what is a shell
But a cover
For the creature within,
Defenseless without it
And what is the glass
But a bright reflector
Where images pass
As a dream And leave
A blank transparency.

By Ruth Frost

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