PELE ON MT. WAI'ALE'ALE

Such cliffs, 4000 feet straight up,
spires piercing the sky.
Blue leaks down into the ocean.
Deep valleys—some no wider
than a hundred feet across,
as if made by serpents.
In the Valley of the Lost Tribe,
where time becomes a concept of the future,
the present breathes green air.
Inside the crater of Mt. Waiʻaleʻale,
where it rains inches a day,
hundreds of waterfalls, like long white hair
tumbling down over 2000 ft sheer cliff.
Madame Pele, aged, and turned to water,
shakes loose the next element—
and cloaks the island in green.
One can't slip any further back in time,
it's  like suspended animation.
On the coast, sea caves, lava tubes,
fresh blue opals and rainbows. Notes of color.
How does all that color get into the sea?
Paradise, a Persian word, means garden.
This garden extends from the summit
of Mt. Waiʻaleʻale, to the ocean floor.

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Paradise in the tropics, is a fragile thing.
Waikiki, Mardi Gras West, is an open sore.

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In spite of it all the development
I am truly in love with paradise.
I have come home to a place
where I have never been before.

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Japanese doves pool at my feet
the blue of their beaks and eyes
as if dipped into the ocean.

Raucous mynabirds and finches
in the guava trees make the Galapagos
seem dull by comparison.

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