Through Nuuanu where we tend to the unseen
and plant paths that lead to places praise
behind the shafts on streams
blending in to canopies and dreams.
There are no cars beneath the eaves of ancient trees
but the old road at its root is an intermediary,
a dead end where one keeps going
there is always rain
it is part of the unknowing.
The pilgrim in the valley
amongst the stones and the streams
substances to gather
he comes baring shadows.
Part the leaves
pull through sleeves and enter slowly.
Trees quiver in wild communication
of something coming
in a masquerade of clouds
dances across the sky.
Shrouded mountains in morning
the soul, the impression in the path,
seeks no followers.
Close to the wet breast of forest
it maneuvers its feet in flecks of light
radiating off of bamboo dancing in the darker places.
Like Spring on its long way down
the mountain of melting
white wash over smooth stone
go alone and remain
open to receive
momentum, seasons, cycles,
rain seeping into the earth
like disparate dreams of fractured places
filling the mind with pools of inverted faces
sweats of anticipation, encouragement, indifference,
the unknown assuring that chapters finish
as feathers spread in the sun
to soar you from chopped off islands
in a sea of becoming.