Awaiting Epiphany

Chalkboards full of formulas
Find x, he says.
A game of mathematical
hide and seek—
the hidden, triumphant,
the seeker in frustration.


Left-brain society and I do not
click like high heels
on marbled floors, pearls on broken string
diving to their deaths, not at all like
the victorious sound of
golden keys unlocking golden doors.

Give it time, she said. Maybe it’ll grow on you.
If it did it’d grow like the thorny
leaves of the acacia, inviting but guarded
by esoteric ants, elitist giants barring entry
into the realm of the sacred,
sealing off the gems of the known.

Maybe it’ll appear from nowhere in a
glimpse of intuition, a softened image on
sleepy eyelashes peeled away and cherished,
to be a dream-catcher is to be gifted—
no fanfare, no drum roll,
knowledge comes quietly.

But for now, I doodle, watching ink
squiggles turn to meaning—four corners
filled with words, blissful; thoughts, ephemeral;
working inward from the outskirts,
toward the day the seeker
is triumphant.