Tiny Black Turtle

Coin-sized, it lays on my clammy palm, head-high, domed shell
four small legs protruding
Smooth as polished marble
Black, like the Yin next to Yang
but nowhere close to being evil
Deep lines embedded into the shell, forming rough-edged
hexagons, each slightly different.
From a small street-side shop in New Zealand,
an item like sleek black gold, so precious.
Of course it’s in a pair, not sad and alone.
The other one lays on my other hand. They should be
Side by side; together.
Both made of baked clay, pressed by someone else; handmade
you can still see the thin grooves of their fingerprint on
The head, the legs, the bottom of the shell.
The clay, hard like the individual pebbles that litter my garden
so small, seeming so insignificant, yet each one
unique.
Though no one may realize this tiny turtle is precious, special, individual
I do