What To Do About The Olive
from the spilt wooden pot we thought
would contain it.
It leans from shattered slats to garden
wall whose seams will swell and pop
with its slow sure spread
and look at it—in its full-burdened bloom
each chaotic branch heavy with black
pearls as it sits crooked in the garden
bathing pale leaves in Autumn sun
a feral beauty—it moves tattooed
through afternoon thermals
entertains the bouncing twenty-eights
the odd jewel into the long grass.
We must gather the children and their
buckets de-jewel the ratbag of the garden
clatter tin with ancient globes
send them out in saline jars tart
capsules to be bitten and sucked to join
roman wine in ruddy mouths their
pips sent singing into spits of air to land
in random spots and where the sun strikes
to wriggle in and crack.
This tree exploding from its potting mix
like a slow-motion firecracker
has grown far beyond us.
What to do
but let it have its impulse strike out for sky
and gift us with little glossy gods.