the olive farmer

we have an orchard in the sun
with six hundred olive trees
and an olive mill, our trees
are centuries old

we have named our trees, we walk
frowning among them
draw our fingers across singing
ridges of ancient olive bark

our skin watches for harvest time
with the moon; we shake
the olive fruit carefully from our trees
and carry it to the granite stones

of our mill and when we have ground
our year of olives into rich paste
and spread it on the straw mats
of our press, we watch it engender

a slow green-gold with the sun inside it
the hiss of pepper, a thrumming
of butter and the taste
of tart grass and cold appled fruit