Epiphany Poem by David Kowalczyk

The phrase 'unearned epiphany'
first assaulted my eyes
while reading The New York Times.


Derrida was one thing.
Chomsky was another.
This transcended mutant philosophy.
This was blasphemy.


Epiphanies are miracles.
Like parting the Red Sea.
Like virgin births.
Their mother's name is Grace.


They fall from heaven
to hearts that are open
be they butcher, bishop, or thief.


They can no moe be earned
than the tang of damp sycamore
the splash of dolphins in the sea,
or a sky splendid with the aurora borealis.