For years—
decades, perhaps—
it has fought
its way upward

out of dark brush,
climbing the side
of a tall, bent,
twisted oak

each day
a little farther,

each minute
a perpetual reaching
through the linked fingers
of gnarly branches—

a thin green vine
winding beneath them.

And there it is:

atop the highest limb,
a single trumpet flower
lifting its red-faced cup
to the sun
for a long drink.

A smile blooms
In my chest,

for I too
sprouted from a swath
of dead leaves and brush,

spent a lifetime
reaching for light,

forgiving
the ones who made the dark,

allowing
my heart
to tremble for them.