Gone Fishing

Gone Fishing

The last leaflets cling
high on the trunk of
Black Walnut.

I press my back into the
grass, imagine a string,
hung like a line from the 
golden tremble of leaves
to the red trembling
of my heart. 

I am baited and
hooked. I am
reeled to the sky. 

The Prompt

The last few days have been a stressnotonous (I just invented that word; it means stressful and monotonous) blur of phone calls as I’ve navigated the whole being-500-miles-away-from-my-broken-down-vehicle situation. I am aware that this is not the end of the world, but it’s been enough to make me feel off balance. Not unlike the woman I overheard talking to herself yesterday—a low mumble of “I’ve lost myself,” as she searched inside her purse. Today, I found myself again while lying in the grass, staring up at branches and clouds. I found myself, but also, I fantasized that I was a fish, being reeled upward by a leafy hand. I don’t know why, but this was incredibly soothing.

When’s the last time you laid down and stared up at the sky? If you’d like a prompt to play with, then I invite you to begin there. I’ll confess, though, that I’m having a little deja vu, so if I’ve already offered something along these lines as a prompt before, I apologize. Do it again, or don’t, as you see fit.

Throw down a towel or blanket if you’d like, then don a pair of sunglasses, and give yourself ten or so minutes to do nothing but lie about, watching the sky above you. If branches are a part of that scene, great! Clouds? Great! Blue as far as the eye can see? Lovely! Hail? Maybe take your viewing inside and lie down next to a window.

Relax into the support of whatever is beneath you. Gaze upward. Trace the distance between your own body and whatever it is that you see. Feel the space there. Imagine a line of connection if you’d like. Sense the presence of canopy, clouds, birds, blimps (okay, probably not blimps). Find pictures in the clouds if you’d like. Look for variations in shades of blue or white or gray.

Notice that you adore the sky, and begin a poem in its praise. Or notice that you think the sky is overrated and also obnoxiously unpredictable. Write a scathing critique in iambic pentameter. Or maybe just notice the seemingly random thoughts popping into your head as you try to focus on the sky. What if they aren’t random? What if there is some subtle thread of connection that wants to be explored? Maybe the sky holds the answer to the question of what you ought to eat for lunch. Maybe the sky is a metaphor for that thing you’re avoiding.

I look forward to reading your poems in the comments, whether they are about skies or lunch or something else altogether!