forget the twig, the simple, probing tool,
the single thought, the linear design.
the hungry chimp, the absolute, the fool
who thinks the ants are all that we can find.

forget the hemisphere, the left, the right,
the congress of two opposing, mirrored sides.
that symmetry is just a trick of light,
a shallow stream where true connection hides.

the truth is in the third, the weighted synapse,
the slight, sure bias in the net of thought.
the question posed that finds a new collapse
of what the fight of opposites had wrought.

it is the fungal thread, the silent, creeping,
that takes the fallen log and makes it soil.
the gift the ruined cell is in its keeping,
the alchemy of purposeful decay.

it is the voice that will not take a label,
not left, nor right, but frontal lobe and free.
that questions not to win, but to enable
a bridge no single eye had yet to see.

so here’s to those who map not points, but ties,
who see the pattern in the scattered parts.
the quiet light in unassuming eyes
that seeks not just one answer, but new starts.

and in this congress of the vast and deep,
where every voice can shift the weighted whole,
the only promise that we need to keep
is asking questions, bridging soul to soul.

i always find myself
the first frontal lobe neuron.
you want to be a bridge? in left side? the right?
a congress could be forty percent
women in left side, forty percent men in the right
and ten percent bridge for whoever in between.
that is how a tribe council works indeed.