I have had company inside the dark:
a little lamp that never left my side.
Cold friendship. Though I mostly miss the mark:
good friendship. Warm. It always did abide.
Still, everything I knew made me alone.
Not true. It was quite warm. Why am I cold?
Because I never reaped what I had sown.
No effort welcomed me. No arms would hold.
And yet the lamp protests. What oil had
I given it for so, so many years?
That little presence, though I was still sad,
was what I reaped despite my many tears.
I cannot tell why naught came when I prayed.
I cannot tell you why the lamplight stayed.