Naupaka of the Mountain

                Tearing in two the small white flower of the Naupaka,
                she tossed the halves away from her, one half to the
                mountain, the other to the beach. And she swore she
                would not come to her lover until the torn halves
                formed a whole flower once again.

Skin prickling, I will not lie down on beaded needles of ironwood
While the breath of a long wind hungers through the branches.
While the wind soughs in the upper branches,
I will not lie down with you.
The wind will talk with the clouds in a clear sky
But you will not come to the mountain.
As the clouds brighten above the paths where the wet seeds spill
Of guava-smell of sweet pink upon dust-
You will not come.
As the clouds are called over green gleaming bamboo
Above the knocking poles,
You will not come to the mountain.
Taut with names, I'll rake my face on mountain ironwood bark.
Your arms will not bracket my shoulders,
Your fingers not snag in my hair's tangles
For the sake of a word.

And I will not come to the beach, past the ironwood break
To the cold edges where sea water slides on your ankles
And the salt air licks your ear.
I will not be light in breaking water with you,
Easy diving in images of ourselves
Colliding in the shallows with the backwash.
I will not swim deep with you
Released miraculous as a spear in the silky waters,
Nor wrestle your legs, damp in the stippling sand
Since I will not come to the beach.

Till the halves of the white naupaka from mountain and beach
Are held together for the sake of a word
You will not come to the mountain.
I will not come to the beach.

　

BACK        NEXT