Green-gold olives

A poem

The Seminary of Praying Mantis

May’s eve I take my broom Last ray of sun is dead Here ... it is real... The shy clouds hide stars Only the Moon, Jupiter and Saturn Shine their breastplates Of radiant light… I take my broom to the front of our home Into the dustpan goes dry brown and yellow Pointy olive leaves and hard green-gold olives… Into the waste bin…away away Goes all the thoughts of this day Of a wooing crone… Looking around as I sweep and bend For any Fay to show their haunting ways In the clouds sailing on the night or Upon the grasping arms of the olive tree. Queen of Elphame mocks me As I move quickly and consistently I call her Sabrina… How symbolic have I become? Wild movement…yet strangely calm Sweet sweat dripping My dusty perfume... I do as many an old crone Sweeping clean the front of their home…

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