I am wild gypsy fruit bitter as Koroneiki
small and difficult to cultivate
limestone roots too close to salt -
wounds too near to risk of drought.
On war-torn shores I scorch and shelter
delight to flourish rare to one
who harvests, rolls pits against
teeth thick with oil, pungent with sea.
I am no Odysseus, I did not crawl between
two shoots grown from single stalk.
I am no legend, no tree in Crete
two-thousand rings around a wooden heart.
My outstretched hand is not a leaf --
I was not made to settle doves.