Bird In April Pear Tree

In the languorous afternoon of the desuetude of love, I cool in the shadowed fluttering of an orchard of pear trees glimmering in full bloom with the countless white flowering of limbs galvanized by love. A receding light warms the petals everywhere burst into calling cards to the next generation. I tendered mine to you and once you did take it with talent commensurate for giving it back. The phosphor trinkets of the surrounding trees waggle like linens in the breeze, their gleaming limbs complying with the movement of season, wild and content with the instinct to gift pollen to morrow's wind in a white wave of fragrance that blows through me now the love-struck mood of trees. Our season drifts its own way, nearly motionless as a bird that, hidden in stillness among the branches, evades the signal of a lover's flight streaked against the sky, subsides amid the blossomy leaves, ovens white with egregious love aglow in every limb. By the fortune in keeping with a deciduous world, the silhouette among the blooms gets up simply to fly away.
Scroll to Top