I see it in my mind: a perfect apple,
Its skin red dappled silk, fit for a queen.
Inside, the fruit is crisp and sweet and fresh;
Its juice runs down in droplets clear as glass,
A nectar that puts sweetest wine to shame.
Is this the apple that you meant, O mother?

The youngest of us born on Earth, my mother
Remembered things like dogs and clouds and apples;
It always seemed, she said, a crying shame
That we did not. If she (a laugh) were queen
(Mock-regal pose before the looking-glass)
These memories, she said, would still be fresh.

My memory of her, at least, is fresh.
I work in Hydroponics like my mother,
To grow our food in water under glass.
She never did have much success with apples,
And proud in her own way as any queen,
To her this single failure was deep shame.

But here in space there is no time for shame,
So on we worked, in greenery as fresh
And vital as though touched by faery queen.
It seemed she always had that touch, my mother,
And any plant or fruit (except the apple)
Grew lush and healthy in her rows of glass.

And time went by, sand slipping down the glass,
And trees unbowed by gravity or shame
Blossomed and bore. What if there were no apple
When cherry, orange, peach grew ripe and fresh?
So said we all; but to the end my mother
Fought for its life like an embattled queen.

One with the land, they say, is the true queen.
There is no land here, just the tanks of glass;
But somewhere here the atoms of my mother
Still strive to make her children grow past shame.
It has been years, but still her heart is fresh;
I hold it in my hand: a perfect apple.

Red silk that a queen might have worn without shame;
Pale juice in the glass, honey-sweet, dewy-fresh;
Be proud of me, mother, I've brought you an apple.