In a red field of olive trees,

bent, wizened little trees bearing the bitterest fruit—

in a grove that rose some miles above the city, the one that was full

of noise directed not at me but around me, to others whose lives

rushed                      and inhaled and exhaled          while mine

crawled like a man with a trap on his foot—

in the olive grove overlooking the most beautiful mountains

soft snow-caps peeked through the softest clouds—

above me                 the moon stretched freshly

out of the blue—winter was coming near—

down below when I walked the city

there was no moon in the sky the darkness

let hands snatch me, scratch me, their laughter

filled me                  too loud to escape.

In the grove that rose some miles about the city

olive trees stand rooted in thick, rich, red mulch

stillness held deep in the richness—

olive boughs are silence, olive bark, stubbornness.

In the red field, olive trees bear their bitter olive-fruit

and they wait to be plucked

            and made into something different.