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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