The Farm

           
        She holds a shy albino rabbit,
        cuddles him close,
        shielding him from the sun.
        
        We are a large group,
        mainly children- cousins all,
        as we step up the path that leads
        to the caged deer.
        On the way we discover so many
        small significant things that when
        finally we see the deer
        (shadows sheltered in a dark shed),
        they don't seem as important as
        the stone path we step on-
        
        One stone outside the deer pen
        has a particularly intriguing tile
        imbedded in it;  A large chip
        of white porcelain shines
        binding an pretty butterfly
        painted mid-flight.

        We climb up steps and sloped
        paths that lead to a farm above,
        that is owned by an in-law's uncle.
        He has a small pet monkey, on a long leash,
        that leaps onto shoulders and teases us
        with chatter    and fingers our hair.
        
        All around us are rocks
        and the rocks are cradled
        and caressed by flourishing growth-
        flowers everywhere of every kind.                        

        Up on yet another rise
        is a pigeon coot  fashioned
        like a enclosed beehive,
        with ceramic pots neatly stacked
        in concentric circles facing in,
        forming  a complex
        of snug nest spots for pigeons.

        Along the road below,
        the Hejaz Rail Road ties
        have been preserved
        as thick straight fence posts
        neatly spaced around an olive tree grove.
        The uniform space between each tree
        mainly serves to extenuate the way each tree
        brandishes slow sure growth by twisting and
        thrusting and drifting in inimitable poses;
        gnarled and known for a smooth dark oil.
        
        Dip your wedge of warm
        flat bread, first in the bowl
        of smooth dark olive oil,
        next in the bowl of zatar-
        dried herbs cut and crushed and mixed
        with the expertise of ancient adaptations...
        
        Taste the ambrosia of a holiday-
        of Friday at the farm.

 

 

 poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab