It was found in her pocket
a smooth, round stone
such as one found along
the water on the beach
carried daily, oiled by
her slim fingers.
A memory of mornings on the bay.
I held it tenderly
as she would have,
I knew its travel path
A small, smooth stone;
colors carried the ocean,
cool like the bay waters.
My fingers traced
impressions, left by her
and by the wash of the tides
overlooked perhaps a hundred times
in one passing day.
I knew she favored it
after loving, she put that stone away.
And now it's mine,
a shine oiled by her fingers
and carried through each moon.
It never was discarded,
just relinquished far too soon.
