(for Donna Just in Lawai, Kauai)

Your last day here, mid-afternoon,
we go down to the flat lava rocks
at low tide, under a hiding and
seeking sun. In nearshore waves

we look for periscoping heads
rising to take a breath, inflate
the huge lungs before diving
again to nibble at limu

adorning the rocks like
sea lichen. We call out turtle
heads and flippers and tails,
and I see us as little girls,

blondes getting lighter
each day under the sun,
lake girls transported to
ocean, marveling at these

four long-lived creatures—
two smaller and two larger—
a honu quartet similar
to our own ohana.

One day we will just be two,
bringing us to stand here
on the edge of the earth,
looking to the sanctuary

of waves to find them—
the ancestors rising, breathing,
diving as they have, as they will,
forever.