Olive Season

The sun is that same stationary, daedal disc

That it was in summer,

The rakish boy we'd brought on to offer hands

Was certainly one of the

Local desiderata,  though I'd never tell him so,

Or my risible father;

He'd certainly let him be on his way, with thanks.

He was vulpine,

My father, but life  had been kind and so had he.

Maybe it was design,

That we should meet, get married, fain, hopefully,

That rakish boy and I.

For now, I can simply dream and wait, basket in hand,

For a secret kiss,

Or a dance on All Saints Day, an unwitting gift

From our olive trees.


The End

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