This Fruit

I shall return to the magic tree

This apple, never meant for me.

Stem to severed stem shall fit

With fibres firm and exquisite.

The fruit shall ripen to its core

Ungathered, as it was before.

Then for a moment I shall stand

With nothing in my outstretched hand,

My fingers tense with the distress

Of unaccustomed emptiness,

Wondering why I never fed

Upon this fruit I coveted.