On the Big Island, we learn
how the bees dance
among other songs—
the music of the ohiʻa lehua blossoms
exploding in fireworks of red and yellow,
their sweetness trapped in jars of liquid gold.
This is how honey is made.
Rain draws the contours
of the world’s wild places
until they sharpen into focus—
not with a polite pitter-patter
but a dizzying downpour drenching
the rocks, the earth, our very being.
This is how waterfalls are made.
The steep road to Waipiʻo Valley unfolds
homes of ancient kings, and when we catch
our breath in the taro fields below—
a second-honeymoon couple, with Aloha spirit,
offers a ride back up, up, and up, and our
shaka sign, pinky and thumb, means “thank you.”
This is how kindness is made.
Our bikes slice through dark lava fields
like cutting a pan of warm brownies
freshly made by the goddess Pele—
her volcanoes spit livid fire
and exhale white smoke,
shaping the sacred land into something more.
This is how the world is made.
Kapa Radio sings, “Come rub up on my belly
like guava jelly,” and the frogs chirp
coqui, coqui, coqui, in our cliff house dwelling—
white plumeria perfumes my hair, a baby gecko
hops on your finger, you fall in love
while lying on picnic tables, drinking galaxies.
This is how we are made.