Late in the season, only Granny Smith apples remain on a shivered tree, and a woman gathers them with surprising tenderness, cradling them “as if they were / Each one of her own breasts.” Around her, the hens have stopped waiting for anything good from the sky, and winter winds scrape the black twigs. Inside, the apples wait shyly while richer holiday foods—nuts, citrus—take center stage. The speaker notes that guests prefer waxed supermarket apples and don’t think about the tree’s quiet persistence. She accepts this without bitterness: the shy apples do their best in pie. The poem closes on a gentler image, the unpicked fruit left outside becoming a morning feast for squirrels and towhees. The mood is quiet, wry, and a little wistful, full of attention to small, unfashionable things.
Decembering — Summary
All that is left is the Granny Smiths; she Loves that they cling to their shivered tree, Leaves long gone. Even the hens have left off Trusting the sky to toss them sugar, and Have retired to their tractor, pecking At storebought feed in its styrene bin.
The winds whistle through, rasping Ink-black twigs together; the apples nod and Stub their green bellies. She Lifts ten or so down, as if they were Each one of her own breasts, tenderly Filling her small basket. In the kitchen They will sit shyly waiting their turn: It is the season for other foods; in Stoneware bowls, nuts and citrus Talk among themselves in distant tongues. Here her hands make outland meals, Even finding work for lemon skins.
Granny Smiths are not much favored, Really, by her guests; in festive mood, if an Apple is desired, they'll reach for waxed, Not thinking of that one tree, struggling Night and day to keep for them fresh joy. Yet she knows she cannot blame them; Shy apples do their best in pie.
Moonlight limns the fruit she did not pick; If some green globes remain at large tonight, The morning light will prove, tomorrow, Holiday for those that cannot buy. Squirrels and towhees will know what to do.