Riverstone

It could have been any other stone, at the beginning,
When it was
Plucked from amongst icy riverwater,
in curiosity and tucked, a treasure,
Into an orange polar fleece coat pocket, warm

But it stayed in that pocket longer than one might think,
and became smoother every time
It went through the wash
And the child who picked the pebble from the rest
Grew accustomed to the warm glassy reassurance in the right pocket
Of whatever he was adorned with for warmth that day

And as the polar fleece pocket changed from orange to navy
And navy to black
And polar fleece to leather and leather to silk

The black riverstone went from a souvenir of a walk,
To a relic of child’s wandering,
To a token inadvertedly grasped in moments of alarm
Or sometimes nostalgia for times simpler

But as the pocket changed, as the child grew
The pebble stayed.