When, in the summer, I opened the window
of the sunlit country house,
a branch of the olive tree would caress me,
stretching into my room, its silver leaves laden with fruit.
Grandmother was proud of that oil.
A thread descended to mingle with bread,
with salt and with homemade love.
I wanted to taste that oil again,
to savor its fragrant flavor,
that gentle and delicate aroma.
In my Tuscan land,
after years of longing,
finally, once again,
here in Serra di Buti, I found it.