Classic Poem

Day at the beach.
We are walking.
Because of the ocean's roar, we say little.
Besides, there is a breeze.
Every two or three steps
you furrow the sand with your toe.
Little by little, I fill my pockets
with seashells of different shapes,
small, empty, all familiar ones.
Continually your right hand
parts your hair from your eyes.
I watch you doing it, and you smile.

Along the shore of your eyes
I bend to pick up your thoughts.
One by one
I fill my heart with them.