the purple rain petunias in my garden
will fall by 5pm to be reborn by morning.
Rain, sun, rain
My banana plant will fan new daily greens.
The dolphins flipping in the distance
are the only changing things that tell me
it’s not summer anymore.
Warm and clean the water, the beaches —
no skeletons awash along the shore,
as autumn’s melancholy longing’s
only in my soul.
The stapled plastic, rust-orange leaves
at harvest festival don’t fool me
when my pen can only harvest truth
and death is not a metaphor
in tropical October.
Introducing myself to the ghost of Keats
I’m a hopeless romantic born on Halloween
believing — really wanting to believe in magic.
Like the year that I turned ten
and thought that meant
I would be different.
The only year I wasn’t interested in
pink, princessing sequins.
No, that year I’d be a witch
(trick-or-treat, please give me darkness).
Give me black cats, transformations
in the backyard
running and jumping on my broomstick
really wanting to believe
that I was meant to fly.
Photos taken at Kula Farms, Maui.