poetry

From the Olivetto

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On a clear cold November morning
Past the centuries old
Stone hearth still
Down the broken stone road
Over which pilgrims passed
In the grove
The plum purple olives fall
In nets smoothed like bedspreads
The sun warms our backs
The penultimate picked or
Vibrated
The flavor of warm fresh oil on our lips
With the last lonesome olive
A kiss

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