There is a scent in the orchard,
When all the fruit trees bloom.
The aroma stretches down to the low tide,
While filling my living room.
Honeybees move in at once,
Drawn by the fruit trees scent…
Pollinating every blossom,
To Pay their seasons rent.
Months later the limbs are bowing,
With the weight of apples in fall…
Schools and churches bring their presses,
Making apple cider for all.
My farmhand and myself,
Have farmed this orchard with ease…
Now we fear our crops next year;
What if there is no water or bees?
