Six days before my 64th birthday
I see pictures of my brain.
It’s hard to relate to these intestine-like grooved tubes,
stuffed sausages crammed into a small space.
How can thoughts move through these cramped recesses?
How can they find their way through the mazed passageways?
Where are the emotions?
I search for evidence why my body had slipped into numbness for hours,
all feelings numb except fear.
The dark and light places mean nothing to my untrained eye.
There is a disconnect between this twisted mass and the life I live
where a touch behind my toes sends tingles shooting throughout my universe,
where the last cricket song touches a hidden chord deep inside me,
where I taste a salted tear born of uncontrollable laughter,
where honeysuckle whiffs from dips in the road,
where your eyes reassure me that I am.
These pictures aren’t me.
They are only a landscape of cranial crevices,
in an invisible creative sphere