Α TO Ω

Praying mantis handed  

to climb mine olive branch 

in Ventourata. 

Mamma Thomas’s roses given 

a man working my land 

to be that his Papa 

gave he; 

in so, laying treasures 

beyond measure for family. 

As fresh as rain, you came 

to cut my wings from within. 

Burn my sprouts. 

My dust returned to rest. 

Come winter’s showers  

for I will rise from nest.

Feed at my breast full of oil. 

Ever honor my flame

in heavenly gratitude 

for my fruit 

to consume 

under the shades of the moons 

to come again 

in autumn’s winds. 

Land, until then. 

My bark talks of languages heard 

in words spoken under my leaves. 

Next to me, herds of goat’s bells ring 

and sheep sing. 

Your body swells in the perfume you

exhume from my lungs. 

Pull my fruit in my shade. 

Unfold a seat and talk of old 

with tones of other accents from long ago. 

I was here to shade 

before your current form

and watch your finer bodies 

chase and run. 

Come again. 

There is no end. 

Return to me. 

Rooted eternally. 

Smoke floates to the notes 

of another season 

of trimmed limbs and stems. 

Mamma and Papa hold hands. 

Must the day end? 

There are no words for the verbs. 

No painters can paint the scene. 

My roots penetrate 

and drink from my stones

and flows in your bones. 

The bitter the better. 

Learn from the letters A to Ω.