At cold daybreak

    we wind

    up the mountainside

    to Haleakala Crater¹.

    Our hands knot

    under the rough of

    your old army blanket.

    We pass protea

    and carnation² farms

    in Kula，

    drive through

    desolate³ rockfields.

    Upon this one place

    on Earth，

    from the ancient

    lava⁴ rivers，

    silverswords rise，

    startled

    into starbursts

    by the sun.

    Like love， sometimes，

    they die

    at their first

    and rare flowering.