High backwards swerve with a reed stick, he hits
The olive branches, thick and heavy rain
Of oil capsules falls heavy as it pits
The black tarp with beads of Zaton that remain
There until removed, and sifted bit by bit.
Green and black olives filling the bags strain
The backs of my mom, my dad and distant
Cousins’ backs, till we rest under the sun.
The skies promise rain and the slim sticks pick
Up the pace, to finish before the day regains
Its end as the sun descends behind the Galilean figs
And cactus trees that dot the Northern mountains.
It’s a tedious work done with pleasure
Knowing that our trees know the hands of no other.
AICHA BINT YUSIF 