Silver Sage
En route to Montecatini-Terme, Federica asks us,
jet-lagged and bleary eyed, if we know how to spot
the olive trees
speckled along the sloping countryside.
Laura’s voice emerges from the fog in answer:
they’re silvery. Federica is pleased, points out
the lovely trees
hidden amongst the thickets. Silver sage,
she calls them. She tells us about
the olives, bellies swollen—
sun-ripened,
but still so bitter that you cannot
eat them straight from the branches.
You must take care to coax that
golden elixir
from the acrid flesh. Federica’s voice
floats on, weaving tapestries of histories
and flowing ever onward, identifying
the landmarks
spattering the Tuscan countryside, but
I am still dreaming of the olive trees,
silver-veined and shimmering
in the sunlight.
I too wish to coax something beautiful
from all this bitterness, to extract
what’s good, to create my own
liquid gold—
and as the trees leave me behind
the slow curve of the road,
I long to find myself amongst them,
silver-veined
and always reaching for the sun.