Poem: We Saw The Oldest Olive Trees in North America

We Saw The Oldest Olive Trees in North America

Someone was told they
were in a nearby town,

that we could visit them,

so we went, me
and a few others,
one weekend, to see

the bone-trunks

reaching up, fleshless
hands grasping sky.

Twenty years later,
I saw the woman
who led the outing,

She had been old,

already.  I asked her

if she remembered

those trees.  She told me 
of them, her hands twisted,
echoed their form.

She was old, but
remembered the trees.
I was a stranger.