There’s so little of the world I’m unsure of what to do with. My mind translates that swaying of the willow tree, the twinkle of an eye, the switching of the winds into words that speak of love and light. Almost too easily I make sense of where I meet the world around me. Very seldom do I encounter something I haven’t yet figured out. And yet I’m losing my compass rose almost as if gravity has begun to work differently and my poles have reversed.

I don’t see the patterns spun in the lace in front of me. I don’t know where they lead or what they want. And they leer at me from a corner I can’t ignore, threatening the explanation they’re owed. I can’t help but wonder if the absence of understanding is the blessing of untrodden grass or the obfuscation of the snake. Why shouldn’t it be a plush and unfamiliar path? I hesitate to say that it is so because I’m too often too trusting to see the serpent as it winds beside me.

Even as a writer, I don’t know what to do with a wide open page. I’m not sure I’ve ever lost my bearings before. It’s thrilling, the allure of something promising and uncharted. The angel on my shoulder urges caution, so foolhardy I tend to be, but I haven’t come to regret my bold campaigns yet and I wouldn’t bet on regretting this one either.

*authored in March 2021