Dreaming in Hawaii

I sit with Buddha in the grass,
on a hill near the hotel,
beneath a sky bright with stars.
The Master's huge visage
lies fused in marble,
eyes calm above black lava cliffs
crashed and worn with waves,
misted outbreaths
sealing my eyes with sleep.

I dream I am a native boy,
perched in palm fronds
above the sand.
Between the hard green
of unripened coconuts,
I count my toes,
black against sunset,
the sea flecked with yellow fire.

I swim with dolphins
in the waves.
We play tag until I tire,
then they nudge
me with their sleek, gray heads,
to shore and up the trunk.
Atop the swaying tree,
I blow notes through conchs
and tap my lean, warm belly
like a drum.

Soothed to sleep, I dream
myself a warrior
on the banks of Pele's river.
Lava thunders past,
charred trees swept
burning in the torrent.
In manhood's test,
I gather lava on my spear,
a glob of liquid glass
scooped from the raging flow.
Though heat has seered my flesh,
my trial is not complete.

I climb Kileauea,
and from caldera's edge
behold Pele wading
in a lake of molten rock.
She gazes up the cliff,
her smile beckoning
me to plunge into the roil.
Her eyes are dark, liquid,
sparked with the awful light
of Goddess.

I close my eyes,
fall forward,
and awaken
a visitor
in the unblinking
stone stare
of Buddha.

Scott Speck
10/31/99