Was it a whim that moved you when took
The sad, untended seedling from its earth—
A soil impoverished—and with gentle look,
Conveyed it to your garden, and with mirth
Upon your lips, implanted it to grow
In rich, dark soil beneath a warming sun?
Or was it longing in your heart to sew
A sweetness that in time would grace your tongue,
A hidden charm you'd nurtured by your arts
To flourish? See! Its youth begins to spread
Slim branches for your shade; like verdant hearts,
Green apples grow that will be sweet and red.
Dear heart, the love I bear you is the tree
You've planted, so have what you will of me!
George Chadderdon © 2005