In flowers, ruffles and bows, a fan, a skirt of fine
fabric, a poochy lapdog, a young woman poses
head resting on her chin with a dreamy expression.
What is she thinking? Because of all her frills and
accruements we might imagine she is thinking of
the next ball and who she will offer her hand to in dance.
But wait, maybe she is a writer, like Jane Auston
thinking of a new plot line or maybe she is like
Madame Curie working out the properties of radium.
Maybe she is thinking, “Time was passing. Time was
carrying us faster and faster toward the door of the laboratory
and then beyond the door into the abyss, the darkness”
But in truth, nobody knows what another is capable of thinking.