They called her Valerine Apple with rosy, round cheeks,
Peppered and freckled, a near florid complexion
as she sang sweet songs in the passing weeks,
Swaying in a ring among all thee’s affection.
Sprouted from the hazel green locks
Yet morning Suns burnt her red,
above sable ravens flying like hawks
a singular brown strand atop her crowned head.
Her sky was not of the azure heavens
Brimming instead with fresh leaves
The scent of life from the oak’s gum resin
Her kin beside her so one could thieve.
The chirps of the birds pervaded her ears
yet the night offered comfort and shade
And she had no trepidations or fears
for she knew how the red fruit stayed.
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