Olive-picking this autumn;

Thrashing and stroking the slippery green and black

Chocolate-purple fruits

From branch to ground,

Over and over and over.

I stand with my branch in hand

Knocking against the ancient tree

To bring each hair-on-my-head olive

Plopping down onto an oily canvas on the ground.

And the knocking reverberates

Through my very own bones,

Bones which have bowed low and run away

Into this open landscape…

And I find myself here,

As the clouds, like huge feathers

Go winging through the skin of sky

Rolling out the war of gods,

With an olive branch in my hand

Longing for peace