The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Friday, January 6, 2012

Ahihi Bay

—for Beverly

So far this morning has been cool and gray
but as she walks backward into the sea,
adjusting her snorkel and mask, sunlight
appears over Haleakala's cone
to show the water all around her blue.
Teardrop butterfly and unicornfish
wait for her, saddle wrasse and leatherback,
yellow tang and spotted puffer. She sinks
into the surf and drifts above antler
coral and long-spined urchins where a green
sea turtle swam beside her yesterday.
The breeze dies down. From where I stand
on black lava outcroppings she is still,
though I know her arms and legs are moving
in the world of reef triggerfish and fire
dartfish. She rises and falls as the waves
seem to pass through her, turning her almost
imperceptibly toward the horizon.

--Floyd Skloot

No comments:

Post a Comment