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.

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I  am thinking about Rodin's the Thinker.

What can you say about that?

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



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