Potting Soil and an Itchy Ear

It’s another ordinary day,
and I’m on another trivial task,
just driving to the garden store
to fetch a bag of potting soil.

The radio plays a sappy song,
as my mind whirls in banality,
assembling a bland to-do list,
while struggling to name the song.

I discover my finger in my ear,
delicately scratching an itch,
an itch insufficient for awareness,
scratching begun without thought.

Somehow, my mind breaks free,
and I ponder the situation,
as if separated from myself,
watching the dullard sitting there.

How can he be so utterly oblivious
to the mysteries and miracles
of the reality surrounding him,
of every facet of his existence?

My mind buzzes to consider
the miracle that is an ear,
the conditions to make it itch,
the mechanics of a finger scratching.

My mind lurches to contemplate
the artistry of the musician,
the wizardry of the radio,
the science underlying it all.

My mind expands to speculate on
the powers of the imagination,
the mysteries of the universe,
the purpose of existence.

It is hard to rationalize
all the time and energy spent
dealing with the banality of life
while ignoring mystery and miracle.

But then I arrive at the store,
and pull the car into a space,
and with a transition unnoticed,
my mind resumes the mundane.