I sit in the shadow of apple-boughs,
 In the fragrant orchard close,
And around me floats the scented air,
 With its wave-like tidal flows.
I close my eyes in a dreamy bliss,
 And call no king my peer;
For is not this the rare, sweet time,
 The blossoming time of the year?                        

I can see, through the rifts of the apple-boughs,
 The delicate blue of the sky,                              
And the changing clouds with their marvellous tints
 That drift so lazily by.
And strange, sweet thoughts sing through my brain,
 And Heaven, it seemeth near;
Oh, is it not a rare, sweet time,
 The blossoming time of the year?
~Horatio Alger from “Apple Blossoms”

The rain eases long enough
to allow blades of grass to stand back up
expectant, refreshed
yet unsuspecting,
primed for the mower’s cutting swath.

Clusters of pink tinged blossoms
sway in response to my mower’s pass,
apple buds bulge on ancient branches
in promise of fruit
stroked by the honeybees’ tickling legs.

Bowing low beneath the swollen blooms,
yet caught by snagging branches
that shower from hidden raindrop reservoirs
held inside blushing petal cups,
my face anointed in perfumed apple tears.