Restless in the Bones

The rain falls.
Thunder rattles the windows.

A bolt of lightning strikes a tree in the quarry
and you can smell the momentary fire
before the rain pushes it into the earth.

One lone tree frog braves the storm,
singing defiantly, or perhaps fearfully.
It is hard to tell which.

You wait it out on your front porch.
Your legs need work
and the storm will pass soon enough,
taking with it, the heat of the day.

And you will walk, not far, just enough
to wear out the restlessness in your bones
that never, quite, ceases.

About this poem. 

All in all, I am a content man. But I always have this wanderlust that just won’t ever, quite, leave.

Tom