It's just a pebble ... but ...

It's just a pebble.
Picked up on the edge of a stream,
or perhaps,
the one at the edge of the great ocean,
or maybe, the one
you gave me.

Nothing remarkable about it--
rounded and worn smooth
from endless rubbings and tumblings
over time, in my fingers or not.
Yet there is an essence within
of you, of me, or of an other.

Some ride, tucked into
my wallet, once in a shoe,
and the one from the top of the mountain
that insisted on a free trip
down the trail.
Each its own story.