you can do a whole lot of nothing in a whole lot of years

I slipped past slimey green rocks
to wash my toes in the river flowing
dried off with towels of willow leaves.
Settled, clean, inhaling puffs of clouds
which coughed back into the sky,
I wrapped my hair in plaits of wildflowers.
Hungry, I chewed on earthen acorns,
till my teeth splintered and popped

Laid back on lazy lawn, contrite life,
from day to night to day again.
This atonement, these fears,
the humbling, rolling years
drifting down the bank, yet I am still
just the tiny pebble me:
rough not smooth,
cold not warm,
and terrifyingly at home
not moving at all.