This is an old grove
            of silver green olive trees.
            Seared on the periphery
            by this summer's
            pine forest fires
            it has once more
            survived  triumphant.

            In the middle
            rests the great grandparent
            of them all,
            three yards wide,
            the trunk,
            hollowed out
            long ago,
            by uncountable
            conflagrations,
            the wide spreading branches
            heavy with fruit,
            supported with staffs
            tenderly placed
            by the current
            ephemeral
            caretaker.
 

            Three thousand years old
            maybe more
            still fruiting graciously
            a symbiosis
            of transience
            and eternal life.