Reflections

Reflections

Each time I carve an inlay,

an owl looks away

or at me with one eye.

Three times I found the right

tree with a burl someone else

threw away.

It’s been windy all week,

this first day of Spring.

No leaves to hop across the lawn.

When we twain became one,

before long we were three.

I walk home whistling.

The tune doesn’t matter— 

no notes to come out wrong.

My father was thin, his voice

soft when he said, “Be like the sun.”

He’s never far.

In dreams I remember

the apple tree we used to climb.

Beyond the window new sounds,

maybe a breeze unfurls

the flag or grass bends to hide

the beginning from the end.

On the day he left

he held his hat in one hand

and opened the door

for mother on the other side

of the car.

The light turned green.

No one saw what happened,

nor heard the tires scream.

That was half my life ago.

My youngest son, now half my age,

doesn’t feel the slope going down.

No mountain left to climb,

one more river to cross,

lower this year than it’s ever been.

It could snow tomorrow

though it may turn to rain.

Time to plant or to prune

back the cedar limbs.

—Donnell Hunter

                            2 April 2012