Undergrowth

Undergrowth

My mother and father are somewhere

in the undergrowth that hasn’t been

pruned since I was ten.  I sharpen

the lopping shears.  Where to begin?

On the left a path opens but tangles—

limbs so big they need a chainsaw. 

On the right vines twist too tight

to pull apart.  Not all memories fade.  

Some rest on the far side of the moon.  

Those that remain rise in my dreams—

new growth piercing the dark

to light and joy where there is no pain.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        22 March 2012