I have become
January apples, soft, though sweet.
Flesh withered, slumped and baked,
My bloom is gone.
No summer pippin, I,
No garland in bright May.
I have no show in me that’s left to make,
No sour-sweetness beckoning.
Perhaps there is no more in me
Of gladness for the eye, or heart, or mind.
Plain nourishment is all I have–
But I will keep you warm, my love,
With memories of spring.