Juliet S. Kono
At cold daybreak we wind up the mountainside to Haleakala Crater. Our hands knot under the rough of your old army blanket. We pass protea and carnation farms in Kula, drive through desolate rockfields. Upon this one place on Earth, from the ancient lava rivers, silverswords rise, startled into starbursts by the sun. Like love, sometimes, they die at their first and rare flowering.