Upon the Apple Boughs

Am I a gem wrapped in cotton balls,
or a worm, inside the flesh of an apple,
a red rose on a white canvas
or the unending appetites of termites
in fresh woods,
or the distending stain
on a blank sheet of whiteness?

Am I a masterpiece of art,
a paintbrush
that metamorphoses
to so many inclinations of silken wings,
hanging on an apple bough
as a blank canvas
eaten by the worms of colours,

or the sharp tip of a plunging pen
stabbed deep
in the pages of a dictionary
searching
for impelling words?