A few of us kicked pebbles across the dirt road,

shuffled our feet.

We were warned to be invisible here—

where four temples touch heaven, and far below,

at the mountain’s foot, where the midday city ran riot.

A leather-jacketed man lifted a conch to his lips.

Seashells scattered across the lawn.

Our eyes leapt to a crooked tree as He strolled underneath its shade

closing the gap between us, yard by yard,

flicking a wooden staff, faithful as a second hand.

Sighting Him did turn us invisible, if only to ourselves.

A woman broke our ranks and ran. Not away—

she bounded into His arms with a gull’s cry.

Stout arms wrapped her in saffron. He smiled

so broadly we wondered if we’d ever smiled at all.

For all devout and timid reasons, we held back,

awed by this lover’s selfless act.

I caught sight of her again today,

two decades later, by chance

in a Polynesian farmer’s market.

She was twisting a handful of ripe lilikoi at the sun.

A black-eyed grandmother kept a hard watch on her.

Hippy tourists jostled tight up against her hips,

wagging their elbows, bills, and beads.

What she was willing to pay for that rare fruit—

impossible for anyone to hear.