The rain trickles
down the side of the house
turning the garden
into a soup
of mud and dead tomato plants
while she dances
in a yellow raincoat
and bright boots
waving at the camera
as a silvery voice promises
hot chocolate.

November first, all saints
Celebrated canonised or not.
Recognition left as beauty
In the eye of the beholder.

For sinners accomplishing
Something worthy of holiness,
Something worthy of humanity,
Its nature, the Universe.

Compassion, aidance, honesty.
Truthfulness, chastity intended
In its purest sense. November first,
Olive picking day for me.

Harvesting season's yield
After the longest drought as I feel,
The warmth of an obstinate sun
Pierce skin through bones

To my very core. The same,
Beams granting abundance
Of golden juice to the gently
Reaped pearls of black and green.

From fingertips runs
An inundating sense
Of blessing, intrinsic unity
Of substance shared.

Only anticipating taste,
Fluidity slithering on tongue,
An exquisite elixir caressing
Palate as globules fall like rain

From branches onto
Sheets meticulously laid.
An event unknowing solitude
For it demands collective efforts,

While the distant village band
Plays hymns to the dead I praise
The living and their worth,
Waiting to imagine hundred

Kilograms render seventeen
Precious litres of ******
Olive oil. Chastity unfolding
In its purest form.

Winter peeks
shyly
into early November,
d  o  t  t  i  n  g
the grass with white flakes-
but,
by midday,
she retreats from
all the
attention.

Hold on to yourself
Nothing is as it seems
You simply can´t tell
What goes on behind the scenes

Hold on to someone
Who doesn't bring you down
and alone in front of everyone
Looking like a clown

I can't say I understand
No one really does
Let´s live in a dreamland
And break all the laws

Hold on to yourself
Don´t feel pressured to transform
You can't always tell
When your whole soul is gone

2. November 2017