Pages are falling,
and I’m always replacing.
They never look just right.

I’m haunted by red bougainvillea
blooming
along the King Kamehameha Highway

so thick the road crews
hack it down with chainsaws,
and still the seeds

hurl themselves
into a sliver of dirt
and catch fire in the sunset.

I’ll flip another page and find a field
of abandoned sugar cane.
Anything can grow here.
Remaining is hard.

Two hundred words for rain in Hawaii—
rain that causes creeks to flow up
the Ko’olau mountains,
and rain that tells fishermen
it’s time to haul in their nets.

Image credit:meriç tuna

Trish Saunders poetry and short fiction is forthcoming or out in The American Journal of Poetry, Medusa's Kitchen, Pacifica Poetry Review, Right Hand Pointing, Eunoia Review, Silver Birch Press, Off The Coast Literary Review and the Rye Whiskey Review. Right Hand Pointing published her chapbook, Last Note, in 2019. She lives in Seattle, formerly in Honolulu.