Thinking of The Thinker, Rodin’s poet,
nude and sitting
hunched on a rock, still
and pensive, his
eyebrows furrowed, chin
resting on a
relaxed right hand, his mouth
thrust into his
knuckles, thinking the deep
thoughts of the
artist himself, his creation,
something formed
from nothing, formless,
or perhaps the
sins of man since time began,
his own sins,
worrisome and fertile, slowly
elaborating within
his brain, clay cast in bronze,
this dreamer
beyond dreaming now creating,
lost in his thoughts
with his knitted brow, compressed
lips, and nostrils
distended, thinking with every muscle
of his arms and
legs, clenched fist and gripping toes,
a body poised to
stand, moved to action, waiting
at the Gates of Hell that we all must face to
create ourselves,
hunched on a rock,
naked and still and pensive.
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