On this wet Sunday afternoon, quiet beckons
with slender tendrils and we head out, dogless
and solitary, seeking only a spit of dry ground
to wander the rock-encrusted coastline
just down the road from our little town;

Recently returned from half a world away
heads full of urban din, the endless thrum
that redefines silence as simply a lack
of jackhammers and belching traffic,
the background buzz of commuting hordes
tromping ceaselessly along sidewalks rimmed
with unearthed asphalt overturning business
as usual long enough to enhance the means
by which one might traverse one end
of concrete jungle to the other, tracks
not yet laid onto ground before being
seamlessly pressed into blacktop,
correcting grey stone walkways
and the polished granite foyers
of high-end hotels inconvenienced just now
by this perpetual digging;

We are survivors, my husband and I, who
between us possess knowledge of the sort
it takes to fashion a living from soil
and surroundings, though I’ve said it
countless times before, those skills
would languish in a place built
on broken stone and steel;

Give us rich volcanic earth and blue breath,
the howl of wind and rain driven sideways
or straight down and penetrating, turquoise
ocean troughs tempered by amber fields
of scrub and twists of prickly kiawe rising
to knobs of verdant velvet and ironwood
clad cinder cones punctuated only by flocks
of paper-white egrets seeking shelter
in the paint brush hues of evening,
and we are home.