Olive Grove: Tu BiShvat

Thin brown fingers, wrinkled
bark, noded knuckles,
scars from years of labor.
Hands that had cultivated carefully
the trees in this grove for generations.
He caresses the leaf
between his thumb
and index finger, observes
the budding olive fruit,
hears rumbling in the distance.
The settlers appeared over the hill, across dry landscape,
squashing through fields of watermelon, scaring scattering goats and sheep,
driving Suzuki all terrains, Jeeps, white unmarked vans,
pickup trucks, accompanied by regular military personnel in
IDF vehicles and local police and militia and reservists
threatening yelling honking brandishing weapons M-16s
a crescendo of dust and shouts shots and screams,
screams of children frightened, mothers angered
and then a louder ominous thundering of a Caterpillar
bulldozer escorted by motorcycles.
The settlers approached the old man, surrounded him contained him,
menaced bullied mocked intimidated crowded pushed poked,
hit him in the solar plexus with a rifle butt
and he went down,
down on the ground seeing dusty boots
hearing the laughs and jeers
hearing the grinding of the bulldozer gears
hearing the splitting of ancient wood
hearing the cry of the tree roots ripped from the ground
spitting the grit from his mouth, he arises.

This article was posted on Sunday, September 1st, 2024 at 8:03am and is filed under Poetry.