rainy days lead to this

There are eighty-six billion neurons

in the average human brain.

Outnumbering all the galaxies

in the universe.

That's quite a few more

than all the neural nodes,

bytes and pixels on my phone.

How many work in concert

to write a symphony?

Determine the difference

in fine-grained degrees

between wine and vinegar?

Ponder the mysteries

of the flesh and the divine.
Tie a shoe?

Sink a perfect three

off the dribble, or

connect in sweet harmony

to savor a blissful kiss?

To simply maneuver a spoon

between thumb and finger expertly,

requires more than a year

for the average infant.

What neural multitudes are involved

to summon the fond memory

of the sandy den my grandpa's dog

dug under the loading ramp

for that old flatbed truck?

How cool it was inside,

where I could hide

from the burning zenith

of the San Joaquin Valley sun.

And now I have to make

a careful effort to put a key

into a doorknob. Or light

a candle. The vision from

my one good eye lacks

the stereoscopic precision.

I heard about a woman

whose traumatic brain injuries

stripped her mind of language.

Despite her confusion,

she felt a encompassing peace.

Perhaps something similar

occurs to masters of meditation.

Oh what would it be like to tell

those eighty six billion neurons

to whisper, to pay complete attention

only to this, this fulsome moment

suspended between the moment

just before this one and the one

that comes just after.

It's alright though, to become aware

that my foot's gone to sleep,

or I need to remember the rent's

due tomorrow, and I'll try to summon

the afternoon's bliss when sleep

enfolds me in her arms.

After all there's a universe

living upstairs in my head.