Now they can only see in their memory
three hundred fine olive trees, grey-green leaves
shaped like pea-pods near translucent in sun.
They see green fruit hanging after being gifted
by four-petal white flowers.
They recall young trees, others with greyed
gnarled knees of older men,
men who can remember their Nablus fields,
family fields, before years of illegal settlers
took this ancestral land,
before uprooting, burning, and building
razing centuries of season-by-season farming
carefully tended by grandfather, father, son.
