Save for a lusterless honing-stone of moon The sky stretches its flawless canopy Blue as the blue silk of the Jewish flag Over the valley and out to sea. It is bluest just above the olive tree. You cannot find in twisted Italy So straight a one; it stands not on a crag, Is not humpbacked with bearing in scored stone, But perfectly erect in my front yard, Oblivious of its fame. The fruit is hard, Multitudinous, acid, tight on the stem; The leaves ride boat-like in the brimming sun, Going nowhere and scooping up the light. It is the silver tree, the holy tree, Tree of all attributes.
Now on the lawn The olives fall by thousands, and I delight To shed my tennis shoes and walk on them, Pressing them coldly into the deep grass, In love and reverence for the total loss.
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