The Ohia trees and Hapu`u ferns gag on the furled fronds of Uluhe.
Once pretty, purple spirals seeping from rainforest floor,
now, I rip them, tear them.
My sickle flies through undergrowth severing old vines like tangled ropes on a ship mast.
I peer into treetops, pulling the dried and broken
leaves crumble, silt shakes loose, makes its way to my scalp, my eyelids, my finger nails,
I blink. Hard. Rain-splatter sticks to sharp stems,
leaves deep wounds on bare skin.  

Rain-slogged,
tangled clothes drag me down in a torrent of weight,
cold and wet, I keep going,
four more hours. I think of Gilgamesh,
But what was the symbolism, again?
I remember there was irony, but what?
The slashing of old growth? The sacred forest? Humbabba?
These names, these words, filter between rain drops.
I wipe bark from my cheeks, my neck.
There is something stuck in my eye.
Memory eludes me. It seems important
somehow. I am not tearing down a cedar forest,
but saving the trees.
Arenʻt I?
“There you are,” I croon. “I can see you now.”
Gloves are off, dark, saturated bark, and vibrant, moss,
my palms, my fingertips, my breath,
only the sound of rain patter and birds
in a rainforest.