wanderlust

The stone rolled a good distance from the stream:
this looks like a good place to settle
--it thought to itself, cozily nesting in the damp ground--
perhaps i can gather moss.

Now, of course, was as good a time as any.
After all, the stone had lost all its craggy edges
rolling, rolling, rolling
for what seemed like eons of time.

Smoothened, flattened, leveled,
it now submitted itself to the elements.
Turning its back on the wanderlust
of its rough and tumble youth.

©2005 b.cisek