The thinker

Tonight you fell asleep, head on pillow, chin nestled in the fleshy web, thumb in one cheek, index finger on the other, second third and fourth fingers cascading off your jaw. You passed out contemplating the absurd or the profound, maybe both, perhaps neither. Frozen, sorting pieces of the puzzle, some that you can see so clearly and some that seem close but are yet so, so far away. Frozen trying to ascertain the meaning in an argument consulted, perverted circular, like a Celtic knot circling in on itself, forever starting and ending, and starting again, no discernible beginning middle or end, just a loop with no vagaries, no off ramps, endless. Frozen, trying to sort out so much of the unknown, trying to fill the gaps with ideas, hypotheses, postulations, never quite fitting right, perpetually just a little off center. I fold the corner of the page and and close Ann of Green Gables, Marilla just having presented Ann with sensible dresses that she had bought, to Ann’s chagrin, without puffed sleeves, Kiss your forehead. Tell you I love you. That you are loved. Always and forever.