The paper has become a stranger now.
I have forgotten the feel of it:
[my thoughts stretched out across thin blue lines,
a thousand-word self portrait,
the moment of finding myself on the page]
I want to return somehow, like
a prodigal wordsmith
a wanderer coming home.
Here, notebook open
I imagine myself, small,
timidly stepping out onto the first of 33 thin horizon lines.
I pause, look around wide-eyed, taking in the whiteness
hearing it call to me like a field of untouched snow.
I make a mark
step back, look
And before I know it, there I am dancing
jumping and climbing from line to line
I flip my wrists, let my thoughts fly, fall where they wish
Reaching the bottom, I plop down exhausted
and dangle my legs over that last blue precipice, #33.
I am covered in smudges,
my face stained with the messy markings of self-expression.
Reacquainted with the once-blank page, content
I lie down there and sleep
like the prodigal wordsmith
a wandering poet come home.