Never before did I realize,
I had been dreaming of orange trees.

Foretelling a time like this long before
I had one available and  blooming.

It was not until spring had sprung.

Smells of memory, of wafting scents reminiscent,
of what was thought unknown.

Sweet golden suns among white petals,
the grass is sweet here.

Fragrant fresh full of bliss,
aromatic blossoms croon the gale.

Wind grows enchanting
as the garden adjacent glows fruitful.

It was not until spring had sprung.

I realized the grass is sweeter here,
the hummingbirds agree.