I know nothing of poetry
My only effort is to write
The lines that drift down into me
From a source that seems to say,
'Pick up the pen now, quietly.'
And for a little while I wait
For the words to congregate
Into a harmony of form.
The rhythm comes, sometimes the rhyme.
I try not to think too much
For mind likes to interfere
Believing always it knows best.
Better to be silent as a pond
Receptive to the skidding stone
Whose momentary splash and skip
Is nothing more than surface noise
And troubles not the deep below.