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 season]