Ten thousand miles south of here
I once trod a winding sidewalk
wet from fleeing rain, shimmering under
bluing skies that showered rays on the Kiwi's
roofs, glowing their flower gardens green—
God's bribery to meet my friend.

I did not rush to meet my friend,
for the sidewalk makes a sacred here
of trees releasing tardy drops from green
spigots glad to share with the sidewalk
more living wet offered by the Kiwi
sky, leaves pleased of cloud both flown and under.

Down the hill my footpath sunk, each housetop sliding under
its neighbor, ferns nodding over to stroke a friend,
me, this Yank playing at New Zealand Kiwi
ten thousand miles south of here.
I startled a chimney swift fishing the sidewalk
puddles into a bush, he scolding me from stems of green.

I slowed, for to this commotion I was green,
a desert son spellbound under
glimpses of Eden from the sidewalk.
Then, it snapped —“Gidday to you, my friend!”
from a bloke battling weeds I hear.
I soon departed bird and bloke cradling a gift, a paper bag of kiwi.

I passed by a group of Kiwi
men playing rugby on the green,
the swollen ball flicks slick there and here
as a lad is hauled up from under
the tackle by his friend,
cheered by me, a crowd of one from the sidewalk.

Discovered Isles, crowds now flood your sidewalks
bursting to sight elusive kiwi
birds behind panes of glass. Travelers boast to friends
of waterfalls and glowworm caves phosphoric green,
of sails and steam in the land down under
with photo album wardens of their wonder here.

But they don't know a sidewalk that roams by green
yards shimmer with water fallen where Kiwi hands dig under
earth: this street, a friend, ten thousand miles south of here.

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