A poetic reflection on a recently and serendipitously recalled childhood memory of a family trip to a tiny house on the outskirts of Cape Girardeau, Missouri, the homestead of Grandma Hoard, my maternal step-great-grandmother, and what I, a St. Louis city-boy, fleetingly discovered (launching a daily, life-long quest) in the darkness of a country-night.
Darkness impenetrable surrounding,
squinted eyes, sightless,
searching for light
(even a hint of it [the moon, in forbidding cloud, masked] absent,
remanded to the custody of the next too-long-to-come dawn;
so dark, to shadows inhospitable),
unable to detect, save by imagination,
the wiggling fingers of my hand spare inches from my face,
I felt mortally empty,
Yet, for once (for first),
the real (illumined) presence
of my eternal soul,
and I knew, though seeing not, I was whole.