What did I know
of my mother’s
fear of darkness?
I, who ridiculed her
while tiptoeing through
the darkened webs
of my country home
before reaching the lamp,
which I turned on with caution—
then relief?

Nights in August
around eight,
cicadas reveled
under blackened sky,
while I pondered
what was out there.

Yet my mother—
like any pioneer—
found the light,
walked upstairs,
settled into the long
reach of night’s arm.