ALT Mammoth contemporary, she has been fruiting for four thousand years. Branches twist into minotaur horns, rising from a hollow labyrinth of roots. The vast trunk is bulbous, beautiful; rippled bark tenses like a muscle in the calf of a crouching titan. She is a monument, outlasting empires and human heartache, a weathered ark resisting drought and fire and flood. Every year, twigs plump like knuckles with olives, green currency, ready to anoint kings and restaurant crockery. Her crown is cornucopia, world basket, reaching upwards like Daphne’s arms, dwindling to wreaths. Her heartwood has worn away but, pulseless, she persists.