Moss

River rises in a crescent over heavy
stone beneath the surface--green moss
like a slick beard is evidence of stasis,
though it streams seaward. It threatens
to lift off, whirl away with errant currents,
leave said stone naked and clean; instead,
it clings.

Rain flutters an irregular pattern on
the water, obscures all that is underneath:
coarse sand. Round rocks worn smooth
with their tumbling. Absence of fish.
There is silence there, though the river speaks
to the air above it. It is yes and so and
histories unraveled too fast to repeat or
even to understand. They are our own names
and those of our ancestors being sung to us--
aquatic susurrus that remembers us
to ourselves.

We glide along on the inner tubes of tires,
tip our heads to watch the trail of sky
made by kukui nut trees along the banks
and by the Valley walls. We are entranced
by stone and sand and water moving not
urgently, but with intention. To the sea,
it whispers. To the sea. And we are in love
with the moss because of its many shades
of green and even more, because it shows us
who we are.