Restless

I'm standing restless, filling in a year from now
with my hopes and somehow knowing it'll be better.
I'm trying to forge new meanings from old words,
looking darkly through the glass;
it's hard to tell how full, without a lamp.
I've got another 17 hours until my thoughts
come back to me, to find me waiting in the light,
ready but unable, willing to jump but hesitant to roll
over and out of bed. I'll take a walk because I'm restless.
All this time I've been planting a garden on futile soil.
What's the point to growing crops of rotted tubers and twisted squash?
The almanac says to fertilize with time, but what a price to pay:
I'd rather bury a talent than spend a year.
I guess it's hard to invest when you're restless.