In Media Res

from Out With Lanterns, a daily poetry practice

looks a lot like a blank page staring at me.

I scribble my way down it like I am stumbling
down a dark alley in a foreign country.

I’m trying my best, but this brain is a bird. 
Anything is possible. I could write a decent book again. 

We could go off grid and buy chickens and a goat. 
I pulled three tarot cards this morning and the verdict is.

I’ll just say this: I need to find ways to bring 
calm and focus to the page. Yes indeed, amen. 

When I am just a skeleton, where will this 
slipshod wandering soul of mine be? 

In a cat balancing on a wooden fence?
In an osprey diving headfirst into water?
In a wave crashing to the shore? 
In a molecule inside a stone, in media res? 

Photo by Jolly Yau on Unsplash