Precious in your hand

Walking your beach
which seems so lonely to me now
I stop to rest,
clambering up a small stone cliff
to sit and stare across the still teal sea.
My eyes are drawn
to this time-softened stone,
and in it now I see your palm
outstretched, and creased
with age and tenderness
holding forth as if you were a chld
a small gathering of nondescript pebbles
as if to say
See? Every single ordinary thing
is precious in my hands!