"In the olive..."
There were little colored pebbles
on the path beneath our feet;
small, tightly curled leaves.
The hills that held the morning
seemed ancient as the sun
and philosophy the spine of the world.
I was thrilled with dancing atoms
and you with shaping states.
I cut and spun and stabbed the air
with short dark stubby fingers.
You swirled and stroked and molded it
with slender artist's hands.
I spoke of visions.
You sang about the dreamer
being more important than the dream.
When I began to analyze,
and stuffed an olive in my mouth.
Here are olive finds from Polish Artists for this week: