Rivers of fire

sizzle to ocean.

Turtle islands

creep.

 

Are they reaching out

to touch those from the south?

 

***

 

Years ago

the North Star

and migrating

birds called.

 

Voyagers in

hallowed trees

paddled with

nothing but trust.

 

Heard calls

of Koa trees

deep root protection

explosions above.

 

Did tide and oars pull

them toward their kin?

 

Paddles broke water.

Wind blew sails.

 

Polynesian amnesia

only looked north.

 

Silhouettes paddled

under sun and stars

in could be coffins

if they were wrong.

 

Turtle island

smoke signals

urged them on.

 

What did they think

as they took to sea?

 

Did they doubt?

Note when they

could not turn back?

 

Or did they feel certitude?

 

All of like mind?

…pulled north by gravity

 

What came first?

 

Shore birds or

wisps of smoke?

 

Was the pull of islands

like what attracted your

mother and father.

 

Did the land sigh

with relief when they

came to shore…

knowing that things

would never be the same?

 

Or did it remain in slumber?

 

What we call centuries

are imperceptible fantasies

that lap to shore like waves

under billowing smoke.

 

I ponder this

under palm and sky,

lost in fog that

engulfs wonder.