“Native” by W.S. Merwin

Most afternoons
of this year which is written as a number
in my own hand
on the white plastic labels

I go down the slope
where mules I never saw
plowed in the sun and died
while I was in school

they were beaten to go
straight up the hill
so that in three years the rain
had washed all the topsoil

out past sea cliffs
and frigate birds
only a few years
after the forests were gone

now I go down past
a young mango tree
to the shelves made of wood
poisoned against decay

there under a roof
of palm fronds and chicken wire
I stare at the small native
plants in their plastic pots

here the ‘ohia trees
filled with red flowers red birds
water notes flying music
the shining of the gods

here seeds from destroyed valleys
open late
beside their names in Latin
in the shade of leaves I have put there