Poetry / Tuscan Sun

The first press comes this November
Golden elixir brought in from the valley
To the storehouse

The fruit
   Developed
        Ripened
Ready to be pressured and pressed
Yielding the golden amber oils

The pages build in the Tuscan landscape
Words pouring forth from the heart
The fiber wraps around the newly planted seeds.

Flesh populating on the vine
   Growing
         Nourished
              Developing now

Pouring now from tapping fingers
   And slender pen
        Golden elixir oil from the soul.

Harvested
    Not on common ground
It has been set apart from the harsh chemicals
That abrade
But brought forth by the Tuscan Sun.

November
   He leaves the common ground
Alone
And brings home fruit from the valley
   To the storehouse.

As the olive is harvested
Under Tuscan skies
   He too is pressed
And amber oils and golden elixirs stir

The olive branch brings home peace
    Not to the common ground
But to him
    Alone

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