Orchidland Morning
by Kathy Wines
Playful sprinkles of rain flit and dart adding a soft percussion rhythm
Gray skies brushed with streaks of pink bring a muted embrace
Brilliant shades of green dance in a profusion of differing tints
Fresh morning
Breathe in
Breathe out
Be attentive
So grateful
A symphony of splendor is at hand
Kathy is a teacher at a charter school in Hilo, Hawaiʻi. She received her B.A. in Linguistics from the University of Hawaiʻi at Hilo, along with a teaching certificate, and Master of Education. Kathy and her husband enjoyed three years sailing on a 30-foot sailboat, exploring Mexico, French Polynesia, Cook Islands, and New Zealand. When it came time to settle down, the Big Island of Hawaiʻi proved to be the optimum place to swallow the anchor and start life ashore. When Kathy is not celebrating the joy of learning with her fifth graders, she came be found relishing in all that life offers on her island home, along with pursuing her dream of becoming a writer. Living amid an ʻōhiʻa lehua forest on the slopes of a volcano helps to create the perfect spot to let her creativity flow. Kathy can be reached at wines@hawaii.edu.
Smoke
by Teal Takayama
The night after his death
I went to bed in silence,
more aware of my body,
aware of every step and movement.
I could feel the action in every
solemn joint. It continued that way
for a while, I felt everything
and it was exhausting.
I’d think of that one time when
we were on the back steps,
another cold night. We were
smoking and watching the smoke
drift away above the bushes,
breathing and watching our breath fade.
Then we’d watch it all, the transient white
separating until it disappeared out
of the range of the weak streetlight.
“The way you can tell the difference,” he said,
“is that breath disappears in two seconds.”
He was right, and so for the rest of the time
I would exhale the condensation
and count it, one, two,
gone. Meanwhile he watched,
the smoke from his cigarette carried
high. Now I think about you every time
I see my breath.
I never felt as strongly as you did,
never understood what you were thinking about
when you just watched.
Years later I still don’t know, I’m still
counting breaths while you watch, somewhere,
smoking. I can see your smoke still rising
into the night, past the bushes,
past the trees, higher. Until
it has disappeared out of the light,
out of the range of my vision.
Until it is just the smoke,
separating from my breath,
rising higher, higher,
one, two, gone.
Teal Takayama is from Pearl City, Hawaiʻi. She studied writing under Lois Ann Yamanaka and attended Lewis & Clark College in Portland, Oregon. She currently works on federal policy as a legislative assistant in Washington, D.C.
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