The pear tree is draped in white, as if wearing a frilly wedding dress.
Even while petals are dropping in the rain and wind, new blossoms are opening to take their place.
That is one prolific tree.
I never did get around to pruning it during the winter, and I have a good reason. The best time to prune a pear tree is when it's too horribly rainy and yucky to go out and stand on a wobbly ladder with inconsequential clippers. So I didn't.
That means the tree will be overloaded with fruit again this year. Last summer a loaded branch broke off and landed on my head. We're looking for a reprise of the cranium crackage, but I'm hoping the head this time will be Cranky's. (Because the booger laughed at me.)
We can already see tiny baby pears beginning to form. In about a month they will already be too big to slip an empty bottle over, to wire in place and wait for the pear to grow inside. For making that pootie eau de vie. So I won't be doing that, either.
I guess there's a lot I won't be doing, but I know for sure what I will be doing. Later on, in the summer.
For now, I'm just going to enjoy looking at the pretty, prolific tree. Holding my breath.