Potential

I'm that final battered apple
Come vernal equinox,
That discarded fluff
Upon disintegrating cardboard,
That aimless piece of art
By the well-meaning sculptor.

I don't need a plethora of admirers--
Just one set of receptive eyes
To recognize in full
That I can still
Taste of silken Ceylon,
Saccharine and viscid.
I can still
Be a Delphian huntress,
Unknowable and tantalizing.
I can still
Provide a devastating kindling
For our febrile covenant.