It comes to me half-asleep and hungover.
Like a thief, slipping in unnoticed
and sneaking away with my weariness.
It was just before dawn
when I was stirred by her soft fingers
tickling the chimes
in that time before the birds.
Dancing through the curtains of calm
transforming to a soft palm
that dabs my brow’s perspiration.
Is this a trick of the imagination?
This gentle presence,
ethereal, magical
drawing the whole valley to me.
I would later describe the experience to the ladies of Na Mea,
inquiring whether it was known to them?
Was it named in the way other myriad winds are in Hawaii?
The one they suggested was Haualia,
as she makes her home on the slopes of Wa’ahila
between Manoa and Palolo valleys.
Geographically it checks out,
but you get the sense it couldn’t really be pinned down
and maintains an air of mystery
as it tiptoes softly between the homes
adjacent to the overgrown alley that leads to the sea.
Haualia, blooms from out of cracks in the void
where creation unfurls like the opening of a flower,
the slow motion advance of lava
that is in no hurry to disturb the silence.
This unseen energy is happy to remain invisible,
becoming evident through all that it touches,
penetrating awareness like a scent tied to memory
that in the transition between day and night
is a reinforcement of all that is light.
A white dove loosened from under a jade thumb,
it comes from within the definition of rock,
welcoming the passage of water.
She is unveiled in tongues of mist
that whisper to each other the secret language of hills,
the longing of lovers separated by the precipice
and left with only the enchanted expressions
in the absence of form.
It passes down like a gift from the sky
tied in ribbons of wild streams
and all the beautiful reflections
are the fluttering visitations
in the permeable realm of dreams.
Trembling on the edges of water,
it moves down valley
like a breath followed by the lili-lehua rain.
A passage so delicate that the webs of the forest
can withstand this passage
and hold in suspense the awareness
of hidden pools above falls
where all the floating white petals
are moons that maintain their serenity
despite all of the movement beneath them.
It seems to soften everything it touches along the way,
all of the loss and pain of separation,
reinforcing the idea of yielding
to the unbroken continuity of creativity.
It inspires no resistance
in the subconscious bridge at half-light.
Your first thoughts, awake again
and never quite alone.
Aware of this benevolence
as she roams through,
illuminating the feeling
that you are no more than
a blade of grass along her ridge,
just a vessel for the privilege
of visitation that comes in many forms
but comes to you in this way.
yakskinpocketnotes 