Final reflection of Puako paradise

Mahalos to Hale Puako (House at Puako) for our safe stay, which was filled with experiences that will become great memories.

I can look back fondly upon twelve wonderful days that I had on the Big Island, and my 10.2 night sleeps under the stars.

Before the wind rises, the land
is bright black, a stretch
of young stone fallen toward waves.

Here the field of petroglyphs
holds to its mystery
like the first song of natives,

the forgotten chant from father
to father that was the source.

If I journeyed through what was lost,
I would begin in this place,

the kiawe thorns cracking like
spice-board beneath my feet,
the wind coming now like a low

whisper at my back. I would begin
with these figures at Puako.

The men who carved their crude
proclamations are gone. No one
left in the islands knows

what they all mean. But this
one represents a canoe maker,
an adze blade arched above his left hand,

a sail open full to the wind
joined to his left foot.

Those pocks were piko holes,
where Hawaiians stuffed
their children's navel cords,

hoping for long life. Now
they are pools of lichens.

These others are mysteries.

Miles away the road climbs high into wind.
This is the tallest mountain
in the world, if you measure

from its roots in the well
of the Pacific. And what hangs
on: the sugar and macadamia

plantations, the small cars
bundling their tourists
into blue rain,

the slant and spit
of the ragged Kona Coast.

At Puako, Kohala by Steven Goldsberry.
Illustration by Dietrich Varez.