Bonta begins like a note to a friend: he ate a ripe cherry tomato from his garden yesterday. Then comes the odd part. A snowstorm hit two weeks earlier, yet the frost has come later than ever, and the white flowers the snow bent down have bloomed again. The season seems confused, and he admits he doesn't know what to make of it.
What he does know is simple and honest: the tomato was delicious. That small pleasure sits right next to a quiet unease. The speaker doesn't lecture or panic. He just reports what he sees and tastes.
The haiku at the end sharpens that mix of feelings. The tomato hides "deep in the weeds," and its red is "the wrong shade... for autumn," as if it has turned up at the wrong party. The mood is gentle and watchful, part delight and part wariness, with the title's "gleaning" suggesting he is gathering whatever the year still leaves behind.