The speaker and her fellow pickers go out to gather fruit and refuse to quit, even when the men and their sons say there's plenty. Elderberries, strawberries, blueberries and then apples fill the poem as the seasons turn. The women's urge to keep going feels almost bigger than they are. The scent of the fruit "sings," and the apples become dreamlike, even holy, "like the breasts of God."
The poem suggests where this drive comes from. The "grandmothers" speak from deep inside the women, hissing that winter is coming and you can never have enough. It reads like inherited instinct, a memory of hunger passed down through generations. The mood is playful at first, with the husbands leaning on the car, but it grows more intense and almost fierce. In the end, the picking becomes a wish larger than any pantry: that everyone be fed and the children dance, laughing, down the cleared rows.