E komo mai means “welcome”

 
On this island, the way distant cottages look  
reminds us of our old hometown, though now

stripped of cypress and of pine. But the hills 
are shaded with strands of plumeria, streets 

with the arches of shower trees even in the midst
of drought. When the wind lofts pikake blossoms 

into the air, my skin is hungry for the taste of sweeter 
times. Neither the calls of zebra doves nor the down-

sliding notes of the golden crowned sparrow 
can quiet my restlessness, this sense of how, 

even in the middle of paradise, grief’s mottled 
eye continues to offer itself as a gift of welcome—

strands of black tiger eye kukui nut and ti 
leaves, a ceremony wreathed around my neck.