There’s a Reason Olives Grow in California

There’s a reason olives grow in California
It isn’t just the climate or the Bay
The family orchards shining with white flowers
Groves breaking into blossom every May
Whose hands will pick the ripe fruit come September
Whose steady labor fills the endless days
Who’s watching from the north side of the border
Or hears the mission fathers as they pray

By day the sun reflects from dirty windshields
Or the shades patrolmen wear to hide their gaze
By night the desert shadows over dark hills
Disguise the land a thousand different ways
There’s a wedding ring wrapped in a ragged kerchief
A prayer book & a confiscated cross
Filed in a box from which they’ll never surface
As one more broken family mourns their loss

There’s a reason people come to California
To vanish in the landscape every day
The endless acres shining with bright flowers
The heavy branches bright in clouds of rain
But who will pick the ripe fruit or remember
As grinding hours blend & slip away
& who will watch for shadows on the border
Or hear the mission sisters as they pray

In the fields of the north the day is over
When baskets overspill & stars appear
You could almost bring yourself to climb the ladders
If they led to anywhere but here
A mile away a clutch of rusted trailers
Flickers in a campfire’s afterglow
The mission bells that toll do not remember
The speechless neighbors no one wants to know

There’s a reason people ride to California
It isn’t just a place to get away
The would-be workers locked behind a van’s doors
The families forced to make their separate ways
Their hands will reap the harvest come September
Or find some other labor for the pay
They ride beyond the checkpoints at the border
With every bump they’ll close their eyes & pray

I was thinking of the olive leaf a dove brought
Back from dry land risen from the sea
The monks who brought small cuttings in a clay pot
From a homeland left to memory
A thousand-year-old tree across the ocean
Witnesses another century
Its roots & branches tangle on the same ground
Where generations toiled or had to flee

There’s a reason olives grow in California
It isn’t just the climate or the Bay
The endless orchards shining with white flowers
Groves breaking into blossom every May
We know who’ll pick the ripe fruit come September
Or end up caught before they get away
Who’s watching from the north side of the border
Or hears the orphaned children as they play