To think I should finally see them
at this age and in this place,
and not just see them, but see them

at sunrise, as the jagged face
of the Ha’upu range emerges across the bay,
peak by sunlit peak, transformed

from shadow to ochre to green,
should stand here on this beach
and catch these glinting streaks

of angelfire inside the fading gray,
hear the wave slap against the sand,
witness the way old ridges pulled

from the unseen are made young again
by a simple shift of light.
If only it were that easy, a matter

of a moment hinged briefly between
day and night, a cosmic occurrence,
and ancient things lost to the dark,

cliffs, ridges, maybe even men,
could be restored, made right again,
but six months after my father’s death,

the truth, I suspect, aligns much more
with these flaming rocks overhead,
with cragged stones that even in descent

still rend the air with fire and grace,
lend a passing flair to this island morning,
before the sun ascends to roosters’ crows,
assumes its temporal space.