I’m Tired of Writing Diaspora Poems

I checked my notes, wondering where to go from here since it seemed we were at an impasse. This was Day 94, and Dendro, as I had nicknamed it, had gone silent. At least, as far as I could tell from a tree.

Olive trees stunt and twist and gnarl. It’s easy to dismiss them, to not even notice the rows and rows of olive orchards when driving around the countryside in places like Greece or Jordan or Turkey. They are unaesthetic, utilitarian. They are the ugly ducklings of trees.

But they are also my favorite story of survival, a story of flourishing.