The wind softly robes us
As we climb a beautiful hill
Thousands of miles into the sky
Our feet surrounded by
Flowers whose names I couldn't know.
We reach the ridge.
Breathless
An instant brings
Another world to us
No clouds roam the sky
Blue of the mountain so deep
Envelopes my mind
Reaches so high
That I become nothing
Valley buries a carpet so low
Only an eternity would get us there.
Trees cover the mountainside
With green so moving
I become lost
Powerful water gushes
Through rock
In glowing white
With a voice so frightful and gentle
It could only be God
Written 10/2001
Two pint-sized girls, not older than six each, with brown skin, green eyes and burnt curly hair, sit on wooden stools in the Zippy's at Sears Ala Moana.
With a hard push from her tiny leg, one girl swivels, and her seat makes a deafening, "SQUEEEEAAAK!"
"I bet you mines is lounder than yours," she says to the other.
And then the duet.
At 3 in the afternoon and having recovered from the flu, I cringe at the sound. I don't value the "squeak!" as they do. But who am I to tell them what they should or should not value.