I came close to writing a poem today.

Then backed away,

Unsure how to start,

Or whether starting

Would be worth

Anything more

Than a series of words –

Unsure of their purpose,

Their link, their destination.

Then again,

Maybe poems write themselves –

Like steam rising from boiling water,

Like magnetism exists,

Like gravity exists.

Poems within poems, within poems –

Until nothing makes sense,

Or bears weight worth repeating.

I will write a poem tomorrow,

If the words fall neatly.