My citrus trees bowed with fruit,
double clusters of tangelos and lemons
beyond my capacity to eat,
juice or freeze, crying for a harvest.
Driven to my home by a smiling
blond woman, three delicate young men
dressed in jeans and frayed jackets
seemed unequal to the task.
Namaste, each of the three said, giving
me a slight nod of the head with hands
clasped. We are from Druk Yul, then laughed
as if sharing a secret. Yes, we are from
Land of Dragon, another explained.
Will you need a ladder? I asked.
They’re from Bhutan, the blond said.
And, no, they don’t need any implements.
Folding their jackets on a nearby table
the three silently merged within a
circumference of greenery allowing
a bare scratching of leather on bark
to hint at their progress until a steady
rain of fruit began to fall. A pause.
Then three flattened peels floated
down. Very delicious, said a voice.
After the bushel baskets filled
the leaves shivered and three lithe
figures descended, retrieved their
jackets and once more, Namaste.
Three strangers from the Land of Dragon
took my fruit leaving me wondering
why they were here in Tucson
so far from the ice of the Himalayas.