Enigma 3

I sprout from your palm, for your hungers to calm.

I can be sweet and good, and carried in a hood.

Marching from fogs of Past, deep in your mind resting at last,

escorted by falls and springs, ever circling like a ring.

When overripe I fall to earth, wither in desert dearth,

bad and quite bitter, discarded by the lowest critter.

Sunk through cracks in your mind, to my passage you're often blind.

faintly recalled in twilight, how youth squandered precious sight.

Sought by happy women and men, dreaded by the condemned,

commended amongst white leaves, or shipped to kings overseas.

Saved in a jar of clay, or crossed off a tablet of same.

You may savor me all day, not knowing I went away.

What am I?

Author's Note

Please refrain from posting answers/guesses. Thanks!