When the cicada celebrates the heat,
Intoning that tomorrow and today
Are only yesterday with the same dust
To dust on plantain and on roadside yarrow-
Remind me, someone, of the apples coming,
Gold in the dew of deep October grass,
A prophecy of snow in their white flesh.

In the long haze of dog days, or by night
When thunder growls and prowls but will not go
Or come, I lose the memory of apples.
Name me the names, the goldens, russets, sweets,
Pippin and pearmain and seek-no-further
And the lost apples on forgotten farms
And the wild pasture apples of no name.

Robert Francis