rubbing the worry stones
until my bones wear
down to the contour of the river
stones rubbed smooth
set into the shore
filling in the bank
where the heron watches
and the beaver take
the young saplings
tender and pliant
I was once that green
and could bend like the willows
weeping at the edge of the water
their tears filling
the deep blue holes
where the old catfish hide
thecourseofourseasons 
Beautiful beautiful words – a pleasure to read.
Anna :o]
Love this. The second stanza grabbed me. It could be a poem on its own.
i like how you use the image of the worry stone rubbed smooth eventually and finding its place in the river bed… also the willow, once green – able to bend… no matter what age – we always seem to add to the river…
I really like this….my grandmother worried so much and I find I am much like her…the worry stones help to sooth one’s soul..
Lovely imagery. Thank you.
Also love.