Funny how it comes together here
the afternoon of the pow-wow
in Waimea, Hawaii—
the upcountry town with chickens
always grilling on a spit beyond
the row of twelve or thirteen churches—
as if something in me has healed,
after the years of longing
for things I can’t have or be.
Or grafted, maybe, like the pear trees
our landlord has married
(Seckel to Bartlett, Comice to Bosq)
back in our California yard.
In a real sense
I am of these people, all of them—
the Indian dancers
with fine feathered wings
Theirs are my ways: the old ways
I have come to this island to learn;
the way the Tao is said to be;
the way I feel here, longing
and belonging, welcomed home.