Left-brain society and I do not
click like high heels
on marbled floors or 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 says. Maybe it’ll grow on you.
I doubt that. 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,
towards the day
the seeker is triumphant.