Spent

I craved a day of silence, without even the nails on the feet of my dog;
A day of sky and grass without cliff or bluff;
A day without the grind of joint, without the astonishing burden of body;
I craved a stretch, a float, a field.
And then it came and have I squandered it all on a staring spree?
How pine needles fall in tiny threes, like the footprints of tall birds?
Did I fill my empty field with lichen branch,
with end stage leaf,
and dying light?

Is my time not well spent kneeling at the base of a tree?
At the end of all entirety;
What of this debris?