Oars and jars in place,
sails ready to blossom,
map drawn as a moon.
Chinese character, rhythm of life,
painted on the hull.
It is strange that I see.
On every mornings breeze.
That there’s always a doorway.
To you.
It is strange every time.
It is always on the line.
And the door.
It is open.
For you.
Come morning,
Come morning,
we set sail.
Rose fingered dawn appeared early today
at the island, East Brothers Light station.
From Benicia hills I caught the first ray.
Now, absorbing my share of sun's ration
on this islet in San Francisco bay.
I early watched the night, battle, and chased
by the minions of a bright new day.
On the East wind, a train's horn as it raced
to who knows where or what destination.
And I wondered, too, as to my endpoint.
Sitting here in mellow contemplation,
face filled with the solar afirmament
of a life not without worth and valued
at least in the number of good years totaled
Coming over the hill this morning,
carefully crossing the Benicia bridge,
was magical, the sunrise was turning
lightening sky and clouds crimson, and the ridge
way across the bridge was still dark
and it seemed like I was entering
a magical city because the lights that mark
the way were starkly contrasting
to the black shore and the grey river.
I thought about who would most
appreciate this beautiful moment and never
doubted that was Mokihana, that lost
girl I used to drive to Waipahu and back,
and for whom I thank the universe daily, in fact.