Brine
Brine
He grew up in the valley.
Sometimes, nodding off
On fentanyl on Hyde,
He’ll be surprised
By the memory of orchards,
Times his mother drove them
To a tree-lined road
Near Woodland or Winters.
For an hour they picked all the olives
They could reach.
In the time it took them
To brine, he’d forget about them.
Then, one day, she’d bring out the jar,
Saying something about patience.
If only he could find his way back
To that road, to those trees
He knew must still be there,
Making olives no one picked,
Then all that was bitter in him
Might be turned
Like a key.