Every Poem Is Made of Time

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.