Wednesday, February 17, 2010


There are little altars, memorials, and offering bundles everywhere.  In the black a'a fields, white pebbles trace out a cross and a name.

Stones are aligned on an ancient heiau with such focus on balance and rhythm that they almost speak. I try to listen, but it is a lost language.

Past the coffee plantations, a tree is festooned with orchid leis, sparkles, and yellow hibiscus.  My eyes say, "It's a celebration," but my heart knows otherwise.

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