©-2001, 2002, 2005 Dan O'Connor

I bound up a rocky road

I can’t see the smile on my face

but I can feel it as the car bounces

against my aching muscles

“Praise the Lord,” says Linda

“Now and forever,” I take the key

“In the morning I plan to hike the trail.”

“It’s beautiful this time of year.”

“Always is,” I answer

Trumpeting orchids above tiny ferns greet me

as dawn breaks and birds chant in the distance

Three large boulders mark the trailhead--

The Father, The Son, The Holy Ghost

Wind blows; sugarcane flutters

remnants of an earlier era

I tromp upward and onward

bright green moss on fallen logs

Straight, thin branches lean to form a tunnel

I think of the parting sea

Soon I come to an army of Cook pines, standing tall and straight

I look up and see them as cathedral spires against the blue sky

A cool breeze soothes my skin through serrated leaves

Unarmed, I pass through the battalion of trees

I continue onward and upward

Ohi’a’s scraggly limbs grip the heavens

Flowerless branches tease of another coming

A fallen trunk blocks the trail

I must crawl on my hands and knees

Obedience to the laws of God and man

A purgatory of ferns impart tiny cuts on my calves

while a purple glory bush blossom heralds His mercy

A grove of ironwoods completes the symphony

Song birds abundant but seldom seen

The stench of fallen guava puckers my nose

Feral pig diggings remind me of Satan

HiHis

I arrive at the ironwood grove and hear creaking sounds

like old men moving on crooked walking sticks

The needles hang like drapes and form a shroud

against the majesty of an ascending mountainside

replete with koa, albeit dead--Hurricane Iniki--1992

I see a regal pink flowering bush

and think of Moses’, lit by flame

Over my shoulder I take one last look

tall pines like needles / angels guard the crest

And through all this,

the trumpeting orchids, the song birds,

the cool breeze, the Ohi’a Lehua,

the fallen trunk, the purgatory of ferns,

the Cook pines, the cathedral spires,

the guava stench, the feral diggings,

the pink bush, and the angel pines

I know that God speaks

as certainly as I hear the wispy wind

and feel the warmth

of the morning sun