I am writing and it is raining,
here on the 4th of July in Hawaiʻi.
The landladyʻs grey cat, his angular
perfect face in repose, is fluffed
into a circle on the chair, right here.
This culture I inhabit is a loud one.
Hawaiʻi with its Chinese firecracker
lust, and America with the need
for loud and louder, big and bigger
much and more. Itʻs not me.
The explosions I align with today
are clear and round and just
departed heaven. They detonate
onto the roof, into the grass,
and soak into the soil.
Forgive me if I prefer
water to fire. Itʻs how Iʻm made.
One yellow eye regards me
from the chair.Yes, I agree,
itʻs time to make some tea
and see what Whitman
had to say. I believe he
“heard America singing”.
I might hear that,
over the rain.
