The Ripe Apple of Summer

Summer smiled at the red apple and gently teased it about its fruit and leaves, saying: that little bunch of blossoms you once held so joyfully at your side in springtime, its color could put the wind itself to shame, and its grip on the branch brought back the memory of a beloved. What did you do to find buyers for it? Where did you find so brisk a market for such a thing? Who gave you together this red agate and green gem, until your branch bent low from the heavy load? It seems you wanted a price for the flower, and with that hue you adorned your own face. A blush of shame rises from your neck, and the scent of musk drifts from your shirt. Perhaps you bought your robe from the planet Jupiter, and dotted the pearls upon it with drops of blood. Your leaves are green gems, your bark is violet, and your crown stands higher than the royal banner. With your ornament of yellow, red, and white, you made me despair of the petals of the rose. My beauty, my spring, where have you gone, that you have hidden away the garden's adornment? Autumn's fragrance now comes on your breeze; I remember you with a cup of wine in hand. When your color turns green again I will praise you, and deck you out like the crown of Hormoz. For today my market is brisk and thriving; after my death you will find no trace of me.