The Harvest of Dragon Eyes

A poem about taste

Brazen days of August begin with the long light of dawn blinking like a dragon’s eye through the sunburned sky.

The snip of scissors echoes down the line of low-hanging trees in the orchard, as I gently trim the branches holding tan-colored fruits, but try to spare the fragile leaves.

When my blue basket is filled I adjust my dusty headscarf and carry the frail crop to the rusted-out truck bed. There are dozens of empty crates to be loaded still.

The harvest is a crowded city emptied by a tsunami of dutiful hands. The jade leaves left behind point at the descending sun like fingers wanting to be free.

Accept one fruit to savor but choose carefully: unripe longans have no flavor and those too old tend to fade in taste — like human memories waiting to be made or lost.

When the peel is gone and the seed discarded, place the translucent white flesh on your tongue and let the sweet juice drip down your throat like a tincture of honey spun from fragrant blossoms.