The orchard is in full sing now,
In a hurry this year, April
feeling frisky, captured the sun
and held it captive,

The blossom of promised nectar
has bees hovering and humming
happy tunes, Can butterflies
be far behind?

Imagine the sighs of satisfaction
as limbs sway sweetly in the breeze.
Trees whisper romance
in the orchard,

a place where poets go to dream
no matter the season. What better
reason for rhyme
than the promise of early pears?

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