The Spice Apple
Life gave her three apples—
One was too green and she tossed it away
Over the moon in her childish play;
One was too perfect, she held it so dear
She dared not enjoy it because of her fear;
But the third was wizened and wrinkled and old,
Such fruit as the autumn wind, ruthless and cold,
Searching the highest bough, might have found
And idly defiant flung to the ground.
This one she set on the fireplace shelf
And stuck richly full of the spice of herself;
The perfume of memories scented the air
And she dreamed that her youth and her love were still there.
