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…