Olive Trees Gift, we are told, of Owl-eyed Athena, she of the gaze like sun-polished steel, but I think always of soft Italy, the countryside greening in early spring. I recall those powerfully stunted trunks rising from earth that still-cool day in March, trees ringing the walls circling a hill town. Monteriggioni—aloof, untaken— had inspired Dante, served as his blueprint for impregnable Hell’s ninth rung. Our car was banned, but entry was easy for us, seeking lunch at a famed restaurant. Doves roosted in the stone chill of the entrance: cooing, dropping feathers, lime, wisps of straw. Forsythia spiked golden against church stones. Cobbles rang. We heard noon bells. Soon, Easter would arrive. We ate light egg pasta, sipped dark red local wine marked authentically with black rooster-marks of true Chianti. The stripped-bare restroom offered elegant austerity, just a hole in the floor with two stone footprints—welcome suggestions for the slightly befuddled foreign guest— paper, and a tiny basin, a latch on the door. Needs must and not a thing more. Refreshed, cleansed, we passed back through the ancient opening, returned to our winding road. Descending on foot. we paused to glance back: fourteen linked towers against the sky, soft white flowers, fresh, resting on glaucous points. The storied olive’s silver-blue-green leaves made fluttering pennants near the car park. Leslie Schultz
Lovely poem and photos. Perfect.
Sigh. You capture the beauty and the darkness of Italy so well through the tangled branches of the olive tree. At least it reminded me of our time in Italy and all we saw and learned.
I am now craving a giant glass of red wine with olives… at 10:00 a.m.! 🙂