Ravished
stone of grave markers, hundreds of
Chinese graves
Dating back nearly two hundred years to the beginning
Of the
Chinese arrival in Hilo.
The bright
red paint of the shrine
And the jade
green porcelain of the roof of this memorial,
Encased in
glass that reflects the graveyard and myself.
Many times I
have seen my reflection shift and disappear
In those
windows that sparkle like pools of silver
As I melted
away,
Knowing
everything is made of time.
This poem is
made of time
It smolders
with the time it took to write
And the time
that it takes to read.
Wind over
the cemetery hill brings the fire to life
For a while
being as it toys with names
And the
Nameless,
Before its
spark catches fire
And it is
devoured by flames,
Burnt to
ashes and resolved to grass.
I leave
myself behind
And walk on
carefully following my breath,
Taking note
of the fire that smolders within me,
Knowing that
I am my own hard death
And my own
hard re-birth
But still
have another poem to write
That will
take time but complete this circle.
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