Your thumb finds the silver.

It is already warm with your body heat.

You gently trace the tiny, sharp edges of the stone.

Each cut under your fingertip holds a quiet courage:

the pale book pages you flipped in deep night,

the difficult email you finally sent,

the heavy suitcase you dragged down the stairs.

Time did not wear you down.

It carved you.

Some prints are silent and unnoticeable,

yet time cannot erase their weight.

Every print of your world counts, they are taking root, and roots, are invisible.

They pave the silent path to your becoming.

You're rooted, and would eventually sprout.

We are witnessing all of them.