Gisela's Apple
At the hour of mercy,
Morning, and dewy —
when rising comes with the
remembrance of school-assembly
hymns and humming —
before Sunday breakfast,
at the hiding corner of a lonesome,
autumn-infested path
strewn with flowers of pelting
romance,
she handed me a lean hamper
so fat with lipstick-red apples —
twenty or twenty-one —
the number matters not,
but her love counts, for each
apple, with the size of Edison’s
bulb, and unsullied with the light of
day,
shone in my eyes, which
have now looked into her soul
and discovered a cavern of love
and all hidden paths leading to sweetness.
Just one scraping bite of the treacly essence—
white and wallsome —and I begin to dream.
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