Nothing stirring in the trees.
A world on the brink.
We live like that, I think.
Cooled a few days by the breeze
that rushes off the sweeping sea,
the fetch that rolls the ocean
in to Waikiki, a deceptive trough
which, like a snake, the land shakes off.
But then the Kona’s long dry run.
The days that build on days
of windless sun, nights without the rustle
of a palm. Which is real, and which display?
Which picture do we live for,
or live by? The coming calm, or
a childhood paradise, where
we swim forever in the windy sky?
The dank inexorable air,
Or the honeyed tropic lie?