The Apple - A Poem

In the beginning she is nothing but a tough, baron, black seed.
But soon she becomes a dull olive hue. She sits on her branch gazing at the beautiful mesmeric maroon fruits high above her. She is still to plain, callous and rigid to be noticed.
But before long she has flourished into a stunning scarlet. She has finally become a plump, lush apple. She looks down at the lesser jade fruits far bellow her and at last she is now happy.
But soon she lies in a putrid, revolting, brown heap on the cold forest floor. She looks up at the fruits she used too pity who are now themselves blossoming a sublime scarlet.
She is once again nothing but a tough, baron, black seed.
But eventually she will be happy again one day.
All she has to do is wait.