I hold you in my hand,
Just a tiny one in several billion,
No more dull or shinier than the rest,
Just a simple little pebble.
As I turn you over in my fingers,
I wonder how old you must be,
The places to which you've been,
And the things you must have seen.
How many miles have you traveled?
On which shores have you laid to rest?
How many others have held you in their hands,
Then tossed you back into the brine from which you came?
Shall I leave you here hidden among the rest,
Or throw you out across the waves to begin your journey once again?
I look at you, the tiny pebble in my hand,
So smooth and unassuming,
I put you in my pocket and take you home.