At cold daybreak
we wind
up the mountainside
to Haleakala Crater.
Our hands knot
under the rough of
your old army blanket.
We pass protea
and carnation farms
in Kula，
drive through
desolate rockfields.
Upon this one place
on Earth，
from the ancient
lava rivers，
silverswords rise，
startled
into starbursts
by the sun.
Like love， sometimes，
they die
at their first
and rare flowering.