Araina Verma Poet Verse

Epiphany

The lightbulb was never the point.
It's the split second before it flickers on,
when the room is still dark
but your hand already knows where the switch is.

I used to think understanding arrived
like a guest, knocking politely,
waiting to be let in.

Turns out it was already inside,
rearranging the furniture for years.
Then one Tuesday it just
turns on the lamp
and says, there you are.

Not a bolt from the sky.
More like a coin
that's been in your pocket so long
you forgot to spend it,
until your fingers find the edge
and remember what it's for.

Or think of it as a word
on the tip of your tongue for a decade,
polite and patient,
waiting for you to stop guessing
and just open your mouth.

It rarely comes when summoned.
You can meditate on a mountain,
light candles, ask the universe nicely,
and instead it shows up
while you're rinsing a mug,
mid sentence,
tying your shoe.

That's the trick of it.
Epiphany doesn't knock twice,
and it never announces itself
as anything larger than a small click,
a key finally finding
the lock it was cut for
all along.

Afterward you look around
and the furniture hasn't moved at all.
Only you have,
one inch to the left,
just enough
to finally see the window
that was always in the room.

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