I have a friend who fell into the olive business and fell in love. This poem was written with her in mind.
“Why love?” he said, “For time is growing up, not growing.”
Sigh. “Love,” she said, “No time for it to find me.”
“We’ll hide,” they said. “In heat and flat, made greening.”
“My love!” They cried.
And having heard its name three times, Love stayed.
“Ah, Love,” they asked, “What shall we, now that you have found us?”
Love answered them,