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.