The grapes are now ripe,
having basked
in the golden clime
and drunk of
the Tianshan snowmelts.
I bought a bunch home
and sat it at on the kitchen table
looking like a still life.
They look too luscious to eat,
but I ate them anyway.
One by one,
the seeds pirouette
into free fall,
and the pulp gave up
its nectar,
and I drank
to the last drop
of the spring melt.

This poem is inspired by a visit to Grape Valley located 11 kilometers from Turpan in the valley of the Flaming mountains in Xinjiang province, western China.