What are the chances your mind’s made of branches?
You brainstem’s a trunk that is wooden and tall
Your consciousness swings through the treetops, not stopping
To wonder just why there are branches at all
At one bifurcation are thoughts of vacation
The next mental split contains thoughts of your mum
Nostalgia for grade school has sprouted nearby
On the end of a branch, in the form of a plum
In one of the branches an owl is resting
He watches your mind with a skeptical frown
When your consciousness gets too rambunctious
He ruffles his feathers and hoots: “Mind yourself! Settle
down!”
Some branches are missing—they’re things you’ve forgotten
Don’t sweat; it’s just pruning, it’s good for the tree
Some of the branches are knobby and crooked
They also have knowledge, so just let them be.
If you doubt that your mind’s made of branches
Just look at a neuron up close—see its willowy arms?
You can’t see the settle-down owl in the neurons
But invisibility’s part of its charm
So if you get depressed or you’re having a rough one
Imagine the tree that’s inside of your head
It’s a beautiful fractal with spindly dactyls
And will be forever. (At least ‘til you’re dead.)
