The old women sat in a small circle
under the natural, unnatural,
shade of the Mulberry tree.
Weaving their knits;
a sing-song chatter
rising musically
into the hot Cretian afternoon,
past the children
perched
in the branches above
eating the sweet berries.
Soon,
cold December will arrive.
The old women will hang
silently
the pruned, bare, thin branches
with water-filled bottles
forcing horizontal growth.
The shadeless Mulberry tree
will sing.
As strong, cold winter...
Continue reading...