A wandering mind need not always stay at home to find clarity and expression. These things arise from observation and curiosity accompanying each step taken away and anon.
Despite his success, Bashō grew dissatisfied and lonely. He began to practice Zen meditation, but itseems not to have calmed his mind. In the winter of 1682 his hut burned down, and shortly afterwards, in early 1683, his mother died. He then traveled to Yamura, to stay with a friend. In the winter of 1683 his disciples gave him a second hut in Edo, but his spirits did not improve. In 1684 his disciple Takarai Kikaku published a compilation of him and other poets, Shriveled Chestnuts (虚栗, Minashiguri). Later that year he left Edo on the first of four major wanderings.
Bashō traveled alone, off the beaten path, that is, on the Edo Five Routes, which in medieval Japan were regarded as immensely dangerous; and, at first Bashō expected to simply die in the middle of nowhere or be killed by bandits. However, as his trip progressed, his mood improved, and he became comfortable on the road. Bashō met many friends and grew to enjoy the changing scenery and the seasons. His poems took on a less introspective and more striking tone as he observed the world around him:
馬をさへながむる雪の朝哉 uma wo sae / nagamuru yuki no / ashita kana
even a horse / arrests my eyes—on this / snowy morrow 
(--Matsuo Bashō, wikipedia)
It's not infrequent one's mind finds it difficult to stay at home. This is not a deficiency. Let it go. It will either disappear or it will meander among all its familiars seeking scents of interest along sides of road.
It is long believed we have to control the mind. That might not be the preferred protocol for the poetic instinct. It wishes to be off leash. Going side to side. None of it is of any consequence.
The periodic comment to New York Times opinion piece, or Washington Post article, or Twitter post, other platform observation needing sardonic reply -- all of no consequence. A mere bagatelle, as the cheerful friar from 1970 Jolon California mission community would say. Nothing but spare notes and scattered crumbs that even the most undiscerning ears and unpicky beaks would leave unattended and unscavenged.
But we do it anyway, uncaring as to whether, breadcrumbing the trail, there's anything left to retrace the way home.
Thread without needle, repairing nothing, untied nor fastened.
Not a thing to be esteemed nor redeemed.
Just there, where it is, nodded to, greeted in passing.
A transcendence with no destination, no ground from which to depart.
The landscape of not-yet.