Hawaii On A Lark

We sat one day in a Mexican Bar.    
It was on the patio—tequila
flowed freely—and dreams grew wings like a lark.

The breezes were warm and inviting
in Seattle that time; and it was beaches

that we longed to see.  T’would be Hawaii.

Let’s fly to the western shore, I said, then.
Liquor talking, he said, to be sure—when?
We’ll go right away, soon as we can pack;
and before he knew it, we got on track.

A 747 would fit the plan—

Big-bellied bird, wide with possibility.
Given nine or ten hours and we would land
for cocktail hour on the sand of Waikiki.

We stepped off the plane into a warm bath
of orchid air; wind blew soft through our hair.
Turquoise surf pounded the Pacific shore 
as totems shared stories of mermaid lore.

Magnolias around our necks were hung
with beads that were strung
from minature shells.

Drum beats permeated balmy night air,
and shadow dancers with feathered hair twirled
round and round, lighting the tiki torches
one by one.  A hollow conch horn played.

Six months later, from our dream we woke;
our lark had flown away, back to Seattle.

We would not forget the Hawaiian folk.

Aloha.