There’s an empty room waiting for us.
A villa in the Tuscan mountains.
Between branches and marble,
and unopened bottles of wine.

It waits and it whispers:
‘Olives and Roses’.
Not a dozen red, but a single rustic pink,
frayed and feminine.

Not asking to be devoured, but savoured.
Perhaps, even, noticed.
Its petals, carried by the hands of the hot winds,
flush.

Embarrassed.
Embarrassed to be caught being beautiful.

The olive dances in the same warm breath.
Silky and radiant,
offering itself to hungry mouths.

There’s a blank canvas waiting for us.
It asks to be splashed by olives, and kissed by the roses.
It whispers:
‘I’m an olive oil painting waiting to happen.’

We’ll make a home there.
We’ll eat the olives and plant the roses,
and we’ll know that it was never about what was empty, unopened and blank anyway.

It was always about being moved by the wind between the branches.