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Raining Olives

Date Written: November 3, 2017

November first, all saints

Celebrated canonised or not.

Recognition left as beauty

In the eye of the beholder.


For sinners accomplishing

Something worthy of holiness,

Something worthy of humanity,

Its nature, the Universe.


Compassion, aidance, honesty.

Truthfulness, chastity intended

In its purest sense. November first,

Olive picking day for me.


Harvesting season's yield

After the longest drought as I feel,

The warmth of an obstinate sun

Pierce skin through bones


To my very core. The same,

Beams granting abundance

Of golden juice to the gently

Reaped pearls of black and green.


From fingertips runs

An inundating sense

Of blessing, intrinsic unity

Of substance shared.


Only anticipating taste,

Fluidity slithering on tongue,

An exquisite elixir caressing

Palate as globules fall like rain


From branches onto

Sheets meticulously laid.

An event unknowing solitude

For it demands collective efforts,


While the distant village band

Plays hymns to the dead I praise

The living and their worth,

Waiting to imagine hundred


Kilograms render seventeen

Precious litres of virgin

Olive oil. Chastity unfolding

In its purest form.


[Featured image: picture of olive picking]

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