An Epiphany Dawns
"The Lantern of the Inner Sight"
Ere dawn had breathed upon the silent pane,
I stirred, a half-suppressed, half-mirthful yawn.
The kettle hummed a low, domestic strain,
While shadows lingered, tangled still in dawn.
A moth—like tiny ember—tapped the glass;
Its tremulous wings murmured to my thought.
I traced the mug’s warm rim; and time did pass,
While sparks within, unbidden, were then caught.
No borrowed lantern from the world’s harsh glow
Could chart the filaments that stirred inside.
Each shadow leaned, as though it wished to show
Some secret mortal eyes might elseway hide.
I laughed, recalling childhood’s timid dread,
When silence felt as tyrant or as thief.
Now hush bestows a kingdom in my head,
Where even fear is tempered into brief relief.
The filament expands, a patient flame,
Threading the mind’s dim corridors with light.
No tempest, nor the outward tide can claim
The lantern born of waking and of night.
I step upon the frost-kissed garden floor;
My footfalls echo softly, nothing near.
The leaf, the stone, the distant creaking door,
Resound the truths my quiet mind holds dear.
O revelation, subtle, deep, and still,
Thy herald needs no sound nor brazen call.
I bend to touch a stone; and in that thrill,
The cosmos yields—its secret unto all.
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