At some point, I'll vaguely overhear someone familiar with me saying, "You're writing a poem ... aren't' you?" As this mild accusation enters my closest ear canal, and wends it's way into my arena of awareness, I pause a moment, briefly tune in, and abstractly answer, "Yeessss..."
When this intangible, yet undeniable Everworld calls, it is that unfocused staring into seemingly nothing that gives the writer away. In my case, I am staring into a vast domain that is hidden from external view, where there is no sense of myopia, and where my thusly engaged mind is off the usual charts.
It is here where all manor of words float freely while I coax then, select them out of the cerebral air, commingle and align them, as I edit them all into a cohesive whole: a poem.
Should you come upon someone who has a writing implement in one hand, a sheet of paper under the other, or perhaps an open laptop, and who appears to be communing with some invisible "something," leave them be. Otherwise, you can either be a distraction, or muse about the marvels you are not yet be privy to. You get to choose.