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.