A sharp wind ruffles the leaves
of the olive trees that line Avenue H.
Do they catch
my whispered dreams?
The ones I send
up into the blue
to ride
the feathered clouds.
No one to harvest
the fruits these days
and their days
grow fewer,
the chain saws'
hungry maws await.
When the olive trees
are gone,
where will the branch
that offers peace be found?
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