There is a life beneath the olive tree
where scent can mask the truth of who we are
and begs us: Who is seashore? Who is sea?
Those blossoms tangle hearts. They paint a ‘he’
and ‘she’ that brush attempt would surely mar—
a trick of light beneath the olive tree.
And in this spell we give our oaths. The free
heart blindly binds itself to moon and stars
that beg us: Who is seashore? Who is sea?
We toss about and grapple endlessly
between the tides, in quest of land afar
with memories of life beneath the olive tree.
The waves wash clean the perfume mask to see
beneath the paint, ourselves, for who we are
and taunts us: Who is seashore? Who is sea?
As oceans churn and sands remain they plea
a final unmasked parting at the bar:
Forget the oaths beneath the olive tree.
Who wants a shore? What's more, who wants a sea?