Here is a day of apple picking at its bleakest. The harvest is nearly over, the weather is cold and wet, and the speaker is worn down to the bare minimum. Singing and chatter have stopped. The body takes over: sore red hands, damp jeans, soaked boots, and careful reminders about the bag straps and lifting with the thighs.
The speaker tries to think about bigger things, like war, money and friends' troubles, and even tries to pray, but the mind narrows to one word, "apple," and one aim, "one more." Small details of the season, such as old goldfinch nests, falling leaves and geese leaving, show the year turning toward winter.
The ending is quiet and stubborn. The speaker isn't working for money, pleasure or even fruit, but because "the crop must come in." The mood is tired, bare and determined, with a plain kind of dignity in simply finishing the job.