Now that they’ve set a standard for the apple
By choosing its forebears and placing it on a diet
And mellowing its shoulders red, yellow, or green
According to chemi-fancy and current market fiat,
And brought it to a norm in taste and dapple,
It’s hard to find a fruit that’s individual.
I praise the factory tree, the thirty-peck supremacy
Over the ten-peck tree; I hail the standardization
Of fruit as rounding as doorknobs, as waxy as wax
(The eating’s the thing, not the explanation);
I acknowledge debt to the society of apples and facts,
To men and grafts that made the tree a hummer,
To pomological genius for developing a steady comer.
My old-time trees are doubtful from season to season,
Though usually they bear in vagrant wild-sweet unreason;
But my apples are the ones to eat for a taste of summer.