I used to measure the map by what I should seek,
stepping around the overgrown brush,
looking for pavement beneath a sensible stride.
But the true path never lay in the sidewalks.
It waited in the pull
the quiet tug
toward hidden courtyards
and lingering conversations with strangers.
To find flow is to choose the long cut
to trust the high, wild grass of your own nature.
It begins with a single lingering ache,
an insistent frolic of phrase
sweet and sticky as honey on a spoon:
'make your own white picket'
From here, the fences multiplied
weathered wood beneath layers of peeling paint,
rusted barbed wire pointing angrily at the sky,
heavy brass locks bridging the Seine,
a woman in white, head bowed in the quiet dusk.
Rules cast like stone anchors
no backspacing, no research, no premature light.
Silence the Critic, bound in the corner
Cast the Censor out beyond the pale.
Before me, only the blank horizon.
Every evening becomes a small, deliberate altar.
Clear the clutter—the idle dishes, the folded linen.
Cell phone silenced,
Windows opened
welcoming in the damp, foggy breath of the city
The candles flicker against dark glass,
Lakmé’s aria drifting through the hall,
while two cats curl like soft dams across the table,
slowing the river just enough to feel its weight.
Breathe.
Then, the keys begin their cadence.
Two thousand words a night,
pouring out like snow falling through an open dream,
so deep that midday light feels foreign and harsh
that sudden hand on the shoulder
pulling me up from the red poppies of a half-built world.
And when the river turned to sharp stone,
when every keystroke cramps the wrist
and the Editor claws at the gag
Step away to the parlor.
Sit on the zafu
before the ficus,
and Breathe
in the stillness,
letting loving-kindness
smooth the rough water.
Of course
This was never about reaching fifty thousand words,
nor the date marked on a calendar.
It is the binding of mornings and nights
the sacred, daily return to the current,
knowing the journey itself
is the only house worth building.
worth calling home
October 2026 Poetry Project
Day 27 of 31
