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.