Meditating on Inklings

A poem about intoxicating love... is it ever returned?

When I sit sitting
sit sitting and thinking,
I wonder while wondering
about some little thing:
do you sit sitting
and thinking and wondering
sometimes about anything?

And when you sit sitting
(or perhaps stand standing)
does the thing you are thinking
have any little inkling
any inkling at all of me?

When I sit sitting,
sit sitting and thinking,
in the back of my wondering
there is something knocking
knocking to remind me of you.

So I sit here sitting
(and thinking and wondering)
and that inkling is growing
till it is breaking and bursting
filling my head with you.

So when next you sit sitting,
stand standing and wondering
perhaps you will have an inkling,
and it will be of me.


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