The click, a gentle clamp
of ideas sealing shut. Sublime skull.
Thought settling into dendrite, like warm honey
grooving into the grain of wooden wand.
Twin to tip-of-the-tongue: amiss, then found.
Akin to, tip toeing barefoot across pink sand.
It sounds like, ears slipping under bathwater:
a hush of velvet. The moment gravity relents
upon single stair, your legs rising to climb.
Axon. Synapse. Chemical prayer to filing cabinet.
Suddenly, you’re no longer reaching—
you've found it. You’re rearranged.
Lights inside you, flicker then steady.
The process, not passive, but a handshake
between dimensions. It’s the exact moment,
language pauses and turns to face you,
takes hold and lifts you up:
a gift of understanding.
N.J. SIMAT
The geese may not be proud of you, but I am.