poem poems

Morning Coffee

So beautiful were those mornings.
From the mountains,
the Hawaiian sun reddened the city--
an old scene I often drew in my notebooks.
The fresh grass became our breakfast table
where plumerias fell, whitening our Sundays.
From the sparse forest of palms
notes of ukuleles drifted
for delicate hula dances,
inviting our hearts to sway
to the beauty floating in the air.

Those mornings,
had the beauty of Sunday mornings
beneath Amazonian skies.
Fishermen played rustic violas,
mothers made corn bread,
older cousins brought fresh milk,
and grandma blew on our hot coffee.
I was a bird who loved to hug
that scarecrow watching all,
and on its chest, I'd never imagine
flying in Hawaiian skies.

 

 

  

Poems: A page of Rosa Clement´s site
© (1998)