Rushing the Pali

Rushing the Pali

There’s not enough time,
no puka to squeeze through
the head, then the shoulder
then the rest of it
a perfect creation
with hands, feet and
a mystical heart.
It’s too late.
I’ve promised a ride
to Hula, and then
I am to paddle
to Kewalo
and back in sprint time
that is after the cleaners
and a few phone
calls to figure out how
to remove
mildew from synthetics.
There is holy woven
through all life
if that is so then even in the rush
can be found
mythic roots for example how
this island was formed
from desire and fire
from the bottom of the sea
and how we came to be
here, next to the flowers
teased by winds
who travel freely back and forth
from the other side.
I am attracted
by the songs of the holy
curling indigo,
sea turtles alongside the canoe
or a mist of elegant consciousness
floating above the clatter
of annoyance.
There was dawn and the color
of ashes just before the sun
when the spirits of dancers before us
joined and the earth moved
lightly because she was
moved.
Singing is behind it.
We can sing ourselves
to the store or eternity as surely
as we were born into
this world naked and smeared
with blood and fight.
No time to keep putting it off
these thoughts of the holy
first one petal, and then
another, like sunrise
over the Pacific
until there is a perfect human.
And then rain over the Pali
as we slow for a stop,
and then the traffic starts
all over again.

Joy Harjo