Olive Tree

[RiverNotch]

First edit:

You are a young olive tree.
Your two thin arms
are two thin twigs,
bearing much fruit.

Your leaves are slender,
shaped like the fingers
of the hot sun.

Your trunk is sleek,
unspoiled by time,
leaning slightly to the wind.

Your roots are graceful,
rising and falling
into the earth like sea-waves.

Between two round knots 
near your long roots,
a perfect hole sits.

Between two round knots
near your tall stems,
a perfect cleft sits.

I pluck twelve olives
from these branches,
and press them for oil.

Sweet little fingers
slither from the mess
into my eager nose,
inflaming my heart.

I run my fingers
through every crease of skin,
thinking of my oven.

My golden knife
strips off the rough bark,
revealing the pale flesh beneath.

I watch your white flowers
dance to the joyful song
of the west wind.

I spill, on the bare wood,
libations of oil,
freshly-pressed.

I whisper a prayer
into your crown of sun,
giving thanks to Aphrodite
for your heat.


First draft:

You are a young olive tree.
Your two thin arms
are two thin twigs,
bearing much fruit.

I pluck twelve olives
from these branches,
and press them for oil.

Your leaves are slender,
shaped like the fingers
of the hot sun.

Your trunk is sleek,
unspoiled by time,
leaning slightly to the wind.

Your skin is crisp,
skimpily covering
your pale flesh of wood.

I run my fingers
through every crack,
thinking of my oven
which is fueled by your wood.

Your roots are graceful,
rising and falling
into the earth like sea-waves.

Between two round knots
near your tall stems,
a perfect cleft sits.

Between two round knots 
near your long roots,
a perfect hole sits.

My golden knife
strips these spaces
of their bark,
revealing the pale flesh beneath.

I spill, on the bared flesh,
libations of oil,
freshly-pressed.

Sweet little fingers
slither from the mess
into my eager nose.

Your white flowers dance
to the joyful song
of the west wind.

I whisper a prayer
into your crown of sun,
giving thanks to Aphrodite
for your heat.