The Thinker

Small pages in my mind want to write


maybe volumes of history


or maybe just of this hour.


My brain doesn’t stop thinking.


It reels about me, about others


the moments of truth – around.


I read William Golding’s short essay


about “Thinking as a Hobby” ;


Grades and levels of thinking


and how Professor Einstein realized that


any contact was better than none.


My mind is still reeling like clouds that


thump the sky in different orders


when rain starts to fall


or like a night blanket of which field


of earth to roof with the moon.



I  am thinking about Rodin’s the Thinker.


What can you say about that?



In the essay,  William prefers Venus more than the Thinker…




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