THE FECUND TREE

A poem.

Hi, as you can see the above, we’re in Umbria picking our olives. It’s our favorite time of the year. But this is work, folks. Hard work. And, as you can see, it’s not easy to find good help. Here’s a poem I wrote about our trees:

O! fecund olive tree of yore

With branches hanging low

Today I shall unburden you

Then to the mill we’ll go!

I cannot reach the highest branch;

My arm’s not long enough.

If I don’t stop I’m sure to get

A torn rotator cuff.

The sun has now traversed the sky;

The stars begin to blink.

It’s time for me to go inside

And get myself a drink.

My back is tweaked, my ankles ache

I think I sprained my knee.

When all is said and done, I think

I hate this fecund tree.