Long ago a poet walked the hills.
He wrote poetry without words.
He spoke poetry without sounds.
He lived poetry with his walk, his gait, his awareness, his mind.
Others looked at him in wonder.
“Why doesn’t he speak?” they asked each other.
“Why doesn’t he write?” many wondered.
“Where is he going anyway?” a few asked. “We keep seeing him so he must be walking in circles.”
The poet spoke to no one but smiled at all.
His poetry was his presence.
His poem was his life.
With every step he took, with every breath he gave, he shared the essence of his message.
His greatest poem was silence.
Whatever you heard, or saw, or thought, was inside you.
All the poet did was walk.
Note: Other Imaginotions by Dr. Joe Vitale