Rosy child of crab-bitter mother, temptation conceals sour pain.
All once fine will wither upon bare branches.
A temptress from the start,
Blushing amongst budding boughs, bees gorging her balm.
Her spell of blossom is a charm,
Though ravaged by finch or frost.
Take her and your Eden's as lost
As petals flying from the gnarled hag that sprang all,
Lamenting brief joy in their dancing snowflake fall.
The fruit is harder to resist.
Against all others its ripe perfections persist,
Calling you from your path.
A gift they seem to stave winter's pain,
Offering riches, love, all our fancies.
Pure and enticing, they droop from branches to part,
Or scatter a halo about the trunk, a mass
Of gold tumble in lush grass.
Harmless. Some are misshapen, plainly cursed.
Yet the perfect can be worse.