We Become the Island, Poem

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I promise to meet you at the teahouse.
You will know me in bare feet, hibiscus
dress, holding the red umbrella.
I have lost my sturdy mainland sense.
Here flooded fields hold taro and sky,
white streams slide to the sea,
mountains fold,
contentment rolls with the surf
as we swim in rivers of silver fish.
Heavy turtles drift in sun-spattered waves.
Inside clattering bamboo we dance to rain’s drum.
After the storm, sun reaches again into green,
O’opu fish climb waterfalls,
copper dragonfly clicks in ginger.
Our skin stained Waimea red,
we wrap marriage in a bundle of ki leaves.