I am that rock on the river bottom,
rendered rotund by countless days of rushing water.
I was not always smooth.
Once I had crags and crevices.
where things got stuck.
Debris of old lives
hiding in my skin.
Became more than I could bare,
carrying all the broken bits,
rubbing myself raw with my own roughness,
overwhelmed by my own heaviness.
No one was brave enough to risk the scratches and rendings
of holding my sharp edges.
So I fell to the bottom.
Where there was nothing but darkness and moistness.
Water, ceaselessly rushing over me.
Tumbling me just enough to reach all of my places,
but mostly just letting me be in it.
I lost track of time, shape, or anything else seemingly certain.
Vanity melted in the gently relentless reshaping.
Who knew I was so attached to my untouchability.
I am not identifiable by any obvious means,
indistinguishable from the other stones polished by patience.
I am just that rock on the river bottom,
sitting at the ground of being as it all rushes by above me.
Curious enough to watch it go by,
let it rouse me enough to travel a bit further downstream,
but mostly just let it be.
Though it will take more time than I care to count,
there will be no more substance here.
Just as there are no longer edges on my cool grey skin,
there will be no leaves or logs or bits of bird's nests,
and there will be no stone.
Just the water,
carrying it all away.