The olives are pregnant
this year
with more tears,
drinking out the blood
that fell, last years'
rain and two snowstorms
that shattered their
backs, these aged them
beyond their two
thousand years-
they say the season is
good, I say
but the season is
surrounded by wires
sunshine and long hours
of pulling out the best seed
from the ugly siblings,
I cannot handle
separation anymore
it is the olive season,
for us, peasant with the ability
to articulate the shades
of green on an olive pip
we weigh the olive predicting
olive oil, tears, and
blood squeezed out
I had begged to
pick out olives
but was refused
heartache by the sight of
sacrifice compact in an
olive
carrying more symbol
than status on a tree.
This image is not mine, I obtained it through Bibleplaces.com
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