The Olive Grove Queen by Debra Margaret Williams
Her confident fingers pluck, and pull, and slide
Imperious through the slender smooth of branches.
The offerings drop, gently persuaded, fall
Into the billowing spread of dulled silk.
Slowly, she gathers and folds the rolling fruit,
Ribbon closes the cupped and ready bag,
Drags and pulls the weight of her beautiful bounty
Through the dew wet grass and mud.
The olive grove queen dresses her maidens,
Pick-hardened fingers smooth their net skirt.
Supple branches sway to her solitary dance.
If the cold sun forces tears from her dreaming eyes,
They take no offense and bow to her whims.
They know these antics well. They are as ancient as the earth.