XXVI: A Little Light

A little light finds access to my room

and lands upon the wall and on the floor.

These silent rays, straight-faced against the gloom

lead eyes which watch to find them past the door.

I know what's there. 'twas put there by my hand:

a little lamp that plugs into the wall.

For when I need, at night, to trek this land,

and rise, and stumble blindly down the hall.

But this, but little, tributary light

is not what's needed when I need to see.

To see, to read, to shake the dread of night,

I flip a switch, and bring the day to me.

Each light is but a candle to a flame.

Each one of these, a version of the same.