Restless. Rest. 

It rains in the early morning and the clouds hang low,
wispy white, dangling over the mountains.
The trees, August green, and darker still
are held captive.

You need skies. You need empty horizons.
Vast space to release your own dark places.
There are so many of them, poorly contained

by walls of stone and history, too much of it yours.
It is not the fault of place or history,
this wanderlust was bred into your bone.

Restless feet. Restless eyes, eager
for new temptations to resist,
new foods to taste, always looking

around the next bend. It is a compulsion,
the genes of your father, everything restless
except your heart.

She rustles next to you and pulls up the covers
as you look out of the window to the grey mountains.
The calmness of the ocean fills you

And you can sleep once more,
dreaming of empty shores and vast blue skies.

About this poem.

I got my wanderlust from my father. It’s a good thing,

The picture was taken on Cape Cod earlier this summer.

Tom