Kohala wind stirs
like white caps on swelling waves
tumbling into folds,
warm hugs thanking
for the last time,
the last time, the last time, 
like the scent of a gardenia, 
fragrant in the sun
and carried in the air,
Kohala wind dances
lightly, like paper,
words swept up,
tumbling across rooms,
words soft and just right.

I don’t think I was ready to let go,
but its time to move on.
“Come back,” they said,
“when you get tired
of Hilo rain.”