Take a measure
Held in hand
Like a gift
Take a measure
Held in hand
Like a gift
You’ve seen nations
From trees’ toil.
Tend the soil,
Heart and soul,
As children laughed
Through centuries of
War and spoil,
While you remained
Above the boil,
Till peace returns
For olives’ roil.
Note: The photo is of an ancient base stone (called “Yam” in Hebrew) of the grinding stones that are used for the first step of extracting oil from olives. A current-day olive grove can be seen in the background to the left. Olives were first domesticated about 6,000 years ago, likely in the Mediterranean basin. Documented history of deliberate oil pressing can be found as early as 4,500 years ago (around 2,500BCE).
To this day, making olive oil involves several stages of crushing and rinsing to extract the oil. In many places, olives are still harvested by hand or by beating the fruit off of the trees. The olives are then washed, and crushed by milling stones (traditionally between a bottom stone like the one in the photo and one or two mill stone that stand perpendicular to it and roll around the base stone). The millstone/s were historically moved by use of man-power or animal power, and in some places still are. The pulp is placed in woven bags or baskets, then the baskets themselves are pressed. The liquid from the press bags gets drawn into a reservoir where oil is left to settle and separate. Oil is then skimmed off and allowed to settle again, sometimes repeatedly, to remove impurities.
For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Ancient
What lesson does history tell
Of shattered bits,
And scratched on bells?
Can peals of old
So we not ruin
Not a rug
But a floor
You’ll be floored
As you find
For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Floor
Long years had
Carved the stone
And cleaved to blue
Yet puffy clouds
Still gawk as they
For the December Squares Challenge
Photo: Palaeolithic art at Foz Côa’s Archaeological Park, Portugal
“Why do you hit the rock with sharpened stones?”
Golin quaked under The Elder’s frown. It was forbidden to harm The Rocks That Shelter. The big stones protected them from biting teeth and snarling maws. They stopped the wind. They held back scorching sun. They reflected heat from fires.
And let flames paint shadows, Golin thought.
“He will drive away Horse Spirit and we will starve,” Morsen scowled predictably.
“Let him answer,” The Elder said.
Morsen seethed. The old man always favored Golin.
“The Rocks That Shelter do not anger when the fire lives in them,” Golin pointed at the dancing reflection on the wall.
“He makes no sense,” Morsen pouted. A few others nodded but The Elder’s stony gaze did not leave Golin’s face.
“They draw the fire near,” Golin stressed. Couldn’t they see? “Perhaps The Rocks That Shelter will welcome Horse Spirit and call it here.”
As the stories unfold
Pried from time’s
Bit by bit
What the fingers
Would have seen
Could have told.
As the cracked places show
Marks of toil
And the grooves of grain passed
Whisper tales of
Broken pieces reflect
Wholeness more than
For The Daily Post
original fiction, rhyme and photography
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