Poem Asking Forgiveness From People Long Dead

Poem Asking Forgiveness From People Long Dead

Winter has set in, though the hummers have stayed

and must search every morning for sustenance

immediately they open their eyes. Immediately

I open my eyes and think of your visiting my dreams

last night after years gone, my slipping hands

around your strong midriff, your dancer’s body,

for a last embrace we never had, that bend in the

road above Paauilo now marked by your leaving.

There is no one else now to speak to about it.

Jim gone, Terry gone, others who needed love while

I too young to know better closed my eyes. So you

return to chide me and when I wake I know

you’re right. If time could bend—but doesn’t

time bend?—I would mend us, bind us together

more tightly, wrap us in maile, my island and

yours, call to the wind to whistle in your ear

on a warm Waimea evening just at sunset when

colors gain mastery of Mauna Kea, weeping,

and the day gives over its dominion to mercy.

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