Apples

An apple tree in autumn stands, On limbs worn down by countless hands, Beneath its boughs, a whispered lore, Of life’s sweet cycle at the core.

The earth, a patchwork of browns and gold, Wears whispers of the years untold, Among the leaves, the shadows gleam, Where lullabies float on the stream.

With sunlight dappling through the green, The ripe fruit blushes, gleams serene; In distant hills the winds embrace, The fragrance lingers, a dreamlike trace.

• Alexandre Blok