Fall 2006 • Vol. XXVIII No. 4 Poetry |

Kubota on Kahuku Point to Maximus in Gloucester

Wind ruffling my shirt and pants, a gleam across the water,Surf sounds in my ears, I roll the cuffs up my trousers,Wade out in rubber-stockinged feet over the crags of black rock,Sea-slick with foam and garlands of kelp, and pick my way acrossPockets of coarse sand, the crushed white corals in bits of brilliant gritBeneath my steps, and realize I have had to learn the simplest things last:Never to get angry, content each day with four bowls of rice,Some vegetables, and my house and store under the shade of pines. Ten years since the war's end and they sent me back.Ten years of counting myself last in everything.I was slow at first to put my hand out, to try and do the world's business.I stood aloof from that which was most familiar,Hurt by the drought of sympathy, cold in summer,Defeated by rains in winter, the wind ever my better. But I turned tack and ran with the shifting breezes one day,No longer estranged, embraced by the lapping waves of the sea,Content not that the land

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