This poem without words
running through mind
on this early winter morning.
Still , dark
as night outside,
light as day, inside.
The poem without words ,
traveled in on states betwixt
sleep and wakefulness.
It persisted like a question.
That needed no answer.
But allowed to be.
One line,
in a continuous loop.
A koan,
an auspicious gift.
Like snow white preciousness.
Laying upon the branch
of a green whispering pine,
along Moody Pond’s shoreline.
The poem without words,
nudging me to arise
from some mysteries place
urgent and written
without pen in hand.
Just ghostly fingertips
tapping on keys.
Appearing upon laptop screen.
Manifested by the recesses of mind.
Does it need to be profound or pondered.
this poem without words?