My memories are a mixture of slack key, plumeria, and Kona wind in the trees. I measure the trades with a desperate tongue. Kapiolani is a park. Kaiulani is a hotel. It is no longer enough to watch the winter tide test the persistence of shores.
Honolulu windows burn a thousand suns.
But it keeps on raining out at sea. The rain comes warm, unexpected. Paradise falls to us in pieces, pieces governed by the highest bidders. Their blueprints cover sacred land with walls. Walls to protect investments.