By Sofia Athena Roberts, Third Year, Classics
I spend my days in the groves,
counting olives and doves,
With roughened hands
that know the sun;
the touch of love.
I pick them for my wife,
my children,
and for God above.
We weave them into flatbreads
as we sit beneath a netted roof,
Debris above our heads.
At times,
we are watched in the groves
by men in uniform – betrothed
to fear, and the idea of a land
made barren.
I would take off a branch
in my passion,
place it in the palm
that holds their rifles.
Tell them:
“Taste the fruit of our disciples –
no bigger than the size of your bullets,
no heavier than the weight of your limits.”
I would give them this
If they would only let me.
Days from now
these groves
will be set all alight,
much like the fireworks
my children
hear in the night.
Still, I will keep with me
a handful of olives.
That will be
one too many
for the lives
of those
who can remember
the groves.
Featured Image: Annabel Bienfait
