Its canvas painted totally black except
for tiny white speck humbly resting in lower right.
The title may have been, "Even Darkness has Light."
Perhaps this wasn't the best painting I saw that day.
Yet for long, I stood staring
in silent recognition of the darkness that I was,
though in no corner of myself did I suspect
there existed a light dot.
Bleak dark fear permeated my soul
when you, my daughter dear, seemed gone
from all my hopes, I surrendered to you,
retreated, all interventions had failed.
I dropped my powerless hands,
was swallowed by abyss of despair,
nor water, or fire, no visible light.
But it was there.
It grew, same as you, once you discovered your glow.
Today, I can paint my own portrait bright, yours too
with only a few pinhead dark spots that balance a good life.
(I do remember seeing such a painting during a time when my young daughter was having many, many troubles. This is the first time I ever allude to this period in her life and mine in writing. It was such a painful time. I did write plenty then, but only in my journal. Glad the light days are here.)
(Submitted to Dverse Poets.)