Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #6                         Page 43
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THE OLIVE PICKERS

We take our rest in cool of shade we make mute gesture to heart and 
circumstance we measure each branch rammed with hard fruit and 
beat the fruit out of the tree and let the light shine through, yes we pick 
and we pray, easy enough to make our pay, we make the necessary 
adjustments we feed the flock and the flock feeds us, providers all, 
provided for, we are servants, to art to family to children to lord and 
master whose face we have never seen except in the blinding rays of 
sun, whose voice we have never heard, only the bees buzzing in heat of 
day and hush this is a secret but ownership is thievery, sanctioned by 
time and government

What we are is what we own and what owns u, and we are owned by 
sunlight only, we serve at the pleasure of the land, not men or gods, we 
are sweet as a kiss, tender as hands finding their way and we take our 
rest among trunks and tufts of tall grass, in shadow of leaf and branch, 
and so what -- is it so wrong to be simple! in shadow in sun hands break 
bread, open a big jug of wine, pass it around -- o secret heart which has 
made us free, in the sweat and labor of summer light, a moment an 
eternity in the olive grove, we do not ask much, the selfish and damned 
and the selfless too, men equal to the moment, women equal to the 
men and to each other, for their own sakes

To live well is treason, to love well is rebellion, art has its own reasons 
and so do we

  George Wallace