re:Virals 547

“More difficult than making your own verses interesting is understanding those of others…” ―Shinkei (1406 –1475). Citing this, Onitsura (1661 – 1738) wrote: “…this should be a way in which a person is completely given over to training.”

Welcome to re:Virals, The Haiku Foundation’s weekly commentary feature on some of your favorites among the best contemporary haiku and senryu written in English. In the host chair today is Shawn Blair. This week’s poem, chosen by Uma Padmanabhan is:

   
scent of summer
filling his gnarled hands
last tomatoes
—Annie Wilson
 Haiku Foundation Haiku Dialogue
 December 10, 2025

Introducing this poem, Uma writes:

This haiku carries a beautiful sense of age, season and quiet completion. There’s a quiet dignity in the moment of ending. Nature and human life meet in the same gentle arc of ripening and decline. It is filled with fragrance, gratitude and life well lived.

Host comment (Shawn):

Reading the last two lines as an inverted phrase, both of a man’s hands are full of tomatoes, so I see two people picking small cherry tomatoes together, one person doing the picking and the other person doing the holding. His hands are gnarled, which makes me picture an older man, and a standard image would have it that his partner of many years is the person with him.

The haiku includes two seasonal references, summer and tomatoes, as if to emphasize the two-handed bounty. These are last tomatoes, though. This would generally suggest the transition from summer to autumn, but in the context of this verse it implies something more specific—the continuation of summer into autumn. For a couple who continues to enjoy and value their brief time together on this earth, there is summer even in the autumn of their life.

The trope gnarled hands communicates age and experience and labor, but it can also imply the tendency to hold onto things with some passion. Life is brief and nothing lasts, yet we treasure certain experiences and do our best to remember and even repeat them in one form or another whenever possible. We are human, after all.

The poet suggests that these sweet and juicy tomatoes, with their accompanying scent especially when harvested in the warm sun, are the scent of summer—the essence of summer. In a sense, the essence of life. If there is indeed another person in the scene (it could be anyone, perhaps a child) the first two lines might indicate that it is he or she who is the scent of summer. Or the gardener may be alone—having harvested his last tomatoes, only their scent remains on his hands. That scent can be hard to wash off. Breathing in that scent, the scent of summer, one could be overcome by such powerful memories and thoughts and feelings and emotions.

Pamela Garry:

Those last tomatoes must have been perfectly ripe that the scent lingers in gnarled hands, even after the tomatoes are no longer there. How much he must have loved those tomatoes to smell his hands in hope of retrieving their beautiful scent. I love the contrast of texture of the smooth red tomato skin and the gnarled skin of the hands of a man who has nurtured many tomato plants. The scent of summer is the scent of last tomatoes and also of the whole season just going by, a past in communion with nature. The poem as a whole resonates beautifully about nostalgia. How deeply we inhale the scents that spark memories.

Urszula Marciniak:

My last conversation with my father took place by a white rosebush. The first buds were already appearing, and we wondered if they would survive despite the night frosts. Instead of the last, still scentless roses, they might as well have been the last, fragrant tomatoes. That year, the rosebush bloomed more profusely than ever before. As if to repay his care.

The last tomatoes in his gnarled hands might simply have been the end-of-season fruit. But for me, the word “last” now has a different meaning. And the scent of the rose mingles with the scent of the spruce.

Let’s savor each tomato as if it were the first in our hands, as if it were the last.

Ashoka Weerakkody:

“Gnarled hands”. That part of the phrase took me years back into those school days in my pre-teens attending a ‘mixed’ school where girls and boys were enrolled in the same class.

During one outdoor activity we were paired up as girl and boy teams ready to sprint off at the teacher’s whistle blast. And we had to hold hands! That was the hard part of it because the girl I was having as teammate wasn’t my friend in the usual classroom environment. We didn’t talk unless we had to. But as we held hands I felt the very unfamiliar sensation of the rough grip of her hand. I thought that was strange for a girl, as my own sister (and myself) had no such roughness in our palms. It struck me, though mildly, as something novel, an unexpected outcome of an experience forced into us by the rules of the school game! Even after so many years at school with that girl, every time I saw her I felt that sensation of a girl’s rough-handed intimacy which never probably left me even in young adulthood.

The rough grip of the “gnarled hands” of the toughened school girl—this is what came to my mind after reading this remarkable verse.

Cezar Ciobica:

This poem attracts you through visual, olfactory and tactile images. Their combination creates a very concrete, palpable, luminous image. Reading the poem, you feel the aura of summer spreading energy, vitality. An important aspect in this context is the alliteration of s in the first line, a sound that makes you see and hear simply how the fragrance of summer materializes. This s also appears later, in the final position of some words, but its role is the same, to intensify a state that is synonymous with a revelation.

In the middle line, the phrase gnarled hands refers to a person probably in old age, who has worked hard and who now seems to meditate with nostalgia on the passage of time, a very subtle aspect inferred throughout the verse.

The use of the verb in the continuous form adds an extra magic to the poem. The person in question is in the position of a receptacle that seems to store the balm of summer to the brim precisely in order to use it as a remedy against all kinds of physical, psychological, mental pains…

In the final line, the adjective last can be interpreted in two ways. Either these are the last tomatoes of the season, or it is suggested, again discreetly, that these may be the last tomatoes he will consume as he will not live until next summer…

In addition, the assonance of the vowel a, seems to emphasize the echo of a pain that cannot be suppressed…

In conclusion, a musical poem, whose fragrance makes you look at your palms and carefully observe the life line…

Jonathan Epstein:

In this earthy end-of-summer haiku, gnarled hands take center stage. Filling the gnarled hands is not the last tomatoes but the unique musky smell (scent of summer) exuded by tomato leaves and stems as a protective insect repellant; a pungent odor familiar to anyone who has grown tomatoes. Fullness is pervasive here. It’s in the ripe (or ripening) last tomatoes, mentioned but not shown. It’s in the satisfaction a seasoned gardener feels at harvest time.

The senses burgeon with smell, touch, sight, and, if the last tomatoes are red and juicy, saliva glands imagine a foretaste. Poetic elements add beauty and dimension: Sibilants (line 1) hint of a summer breeze; equal stress on gnarled and hands (line 2) adds physicality and earthiness; a nod to nostalgia (line 3) in last tomatoes.

The rugged hands belong to an everyman, a nameless, hard-working gardener or tiller of the soil. While arthritis may afflict them, gnarled hands more importantly suggest strength, resilience, a life of hard labor, the wisdom of age, and character shaped by adversity; work- and weather-worn hands that exude wabi-sabi and meld with the mono no aware keenly felt during a change of seasons. An inspiring hymn to summer’s end, the celebration of an embodied if not sacred relationship with the earth.

Sitarama Seshu Maringanti:

The poet is very sympathetic to the farmer whose hands have become gnarled due to his long association with raising crops. The haiku refers to an off season when the farmer uses a part of his farm to raise tomatoes too.

It is now Summer and the end of season for tomatoes. It is also the time for the farmer to rest his tools and await the next season. The scent of the soil, however, that is so typical of the Summer season in his village stays with the farmer.

A haiku that becomes one with the life of a seasoned farmer whose hands have become gnarled with years of work on the farm.

Sudha Devi Nayak:

The haiku paints to perfection the gnarled, wizened farmer sculpted by relentless time and toil bringing in his harvest of tomatoes. There is a sense of quiet triumph, a completion and joy that springs out of honest, rewarding labour. He is “the weary plowman” of Thomas Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard” who “homeward plods his way”, a veritable son of the soil, no longer himself an entity but of the larger landscape of nature and life. Magnified against the reddening light of the sun he seems a heroic figure watching the earth come to fruition. Charged with sanctity and energy, one of those who fed the anonymous millions of the world.

Just as every creation should transcend the creator, his crop of tomatoes goes to grace a dish, as an inherent part of the recipe, or as its dressing, or as part of the colourful salad that accompanies most meals or it ends up in a sandwich. You can fry them, pickle them, mash them—and in any concoction their delicious tangy selves never lose their identity . The culinary diversity has given the tomato many avatars and those who taste and savour them are indeed breathing the blessing of the unknown farmer in an unknown field.

I am reminded of the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda’s “Ode to Tomatoes”…

star of earth,
recurrent
and fertile
star,

…

no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and cool completeness.

Radhamani Sarma:

In God’s supreme creation (Srushti) the governing principle is origin, growth, development, ripeness and decay.

The haiku begins with the alluring “scent of summer” leading us to ponder what this term implies. Everything has its own time. One cannot harvest and aspire for the sweet taste of mangoes in the cold season. Summer is the best time for mangoes. Similarly rose and jasmine—their own special spring for bloom and aroma. Summer is the best time for harvesting fully ripe tomatoes with their special scent permeating the air.

The second line filling his gnarled hands obviously refers to the farmer or gardener or privileged owner of the garden, obviously quite aged, holding the ripe tomatoes. There is a strong similarity running between the second and concluding lines. One can infer that gnarled refers to full ripeness and hence wrinkles—a formation due to age, hard work in the field, and dedication to nurturing the soil.

There is contrast between the wrinkled hands and the scent of last tomatoes. Age and freshness is another distinct contrast to be noted. There is a permeating beauty, rhythm, and a catch in the concluding words “last tomatoes”. Full blown ripeness, the picked tomatoes emanating a sweet aroma—that is the essence running through the haiku.

To conclude a careful observation by Annie Wilson: experience; seasonal changes; and above all, innate poetic spirit come through. A sort of fertility myth can be felt in this wonderful haiku.

Dan Campbell:

A One Minute Play Inspired by a Poem

Title: The Last Tomatoes
(Late afternoon. A quiet garden where rows of tomato vines sag toward the earth. At the center of the garden stands a Scarecrow, long sleeves loose, straw hat tilted. Amos, an old gardener, moves slowly among the vines, gathering tomatoes into his gnarled hands.)

SCARECROW
(to the audience, quietly)

Amos has been talking to me all Summer.
About rain that came late.
About rabbits that snack on his lettuce.
About the weather and how it gets hotter year after year.

(pauses as Amos lifts several tomatoes)

Today Amos recited a poem to me that he recently read.

scent of summer
filling his gnarled hands
last tomatoes

This poem gathers an entire season into a pair of gnarled hands, where scent becomes the unseen thread binding body, labor, and ripeness. Its quiet power lies in what it withholds: the reader feels the closing gate of Summer through the simple weight of the last tomatoes.

I have watched those gnarled hands of Amos for months now.
His hands pressed seeds into cold ground.
His hands tied vines to the wooden stakes.
His hands brushed beetles away like small mistakes.

His hands remember everything.
And now they hold something different.

A gardener’s knowledge
that a season can fit inside a man’s palms.

(Amos places the tomatoes in a basket near the scarecrow)

He thinks I guard the garden.
But really I am here
to witness.

To stand still long enough
to see how gently Amos can say goodbye
to Summer.

David Cox—what we hold dear:

The first line is a literal breath of fresh air: a sibilant summer breeze before we get to the burgeoningly ripe kigo. Above all, this is a poem that is evocative through its appeal to the senses.

The ideas of scarcity and abundance oddly fill up the poem. The gnarled hands are a testament to old age, and therefore the man’s years are numbered. But the hands which hold summer’s harvest are filling up. The perception of the hands being full of tomatoes might reflect the idea of gratitude: this quantity of tomatoes is enough and is, to me, fulfilling. These are the fruits of summer’s harvest. Like the gnarled hands, they are the product of effort and application. The aging process is physically manifested by the appearance of the man’s hands, which, while it might not be pretty, is evidence of a life lived, for better or worse. It has been a product of toil and experience.

The former American poet laureate Billy Collins once said that every poem essentially communicates the maxim carpe diem through grabbing the ephemeral moment. This sort of recognition assumes a sense of gratitude and appreciation for the beauty of the world around us that exists in our immediate surroundings. What could be more ephemeral than a ripe fruit that is delicious now, but will soon be an unappealing mush? Why not enjoy it now at the height of its colour, texture, and taste?

The last line has a finality about it while not being fatalistic. It acts as a reminder to value what we hold dear. They might well be the last tomatoes belonging to the final harvest, or this could be the man’s last summer. After all, how are we to know what is around the corner in terms of what the fates have to offer? We are well reminded to appreciate what is ‘in our hands’ at this very moment, to fully appreciate its values and virtues.

Author Annie Wilson:

I’m so honoured to be selected again for re:Virals—thank you, Uma. This verse was written for a Haiku Dialogue prompt on Working with the Soil. I have grown tomatoes for many years, and for me, the scent of the plants and fruit are redolent of summer. When picking the last tomatoes in autumn, the greenhouse still smells of summer. I intended to evoke a touch of melancholy—the end of summer, perhaps the end of an elderly man’s life. It was partly inspired by an old neighbour of mine. While he was alive, he would give me vegetables and fruit from his garden – often as knobbly and earthy as his hands. I used the word ‘filling’ rather than ‘fills’ (though I know the use of participles in haiku is often discouraged), so the second line acts as a pivot or bridge between the first and last lines. (I recently learnt this technique is called ‘apokoinou’ – I suspect there is an equivalent word in Japanese, but I’ve yet to confirm it!)

Thanks to all who sent commentaries. As the contributor of the commentary reckoned best this week, David has chosen next week’s poem, which you’ll find below. We invite you to write a commentary to it. It may be short, to a maximum of 500 words (succinctness will be valued); academic, your personal response, spontaneous, or idiosyncratic.  As long as it focuses on the verse presented, and with respect for the poet, all genuine reader reaction, criticism, and pertinent discussion is of value.   Out-takes are kept in the THF Archives.  Best of all, the chosen commentary’s author gets to pick the next poem.

Anyone can participate. Simply use the re:Virals commentary form below to enter your commentary on the new week’s poem (“Your text”) by the following Tuesday midnight, Eastern US Time Zone, and then press Submit to send your entry. The Submit button will not be available until Name, Email, and Place of Residence fields are filled in. We look forward to seeing your commentary and finding out about your favourite poems.

Poem for commentary:

     
dog park
everyone about everybody’s
business
— Michael Henry Lee
  ASAHI HAIKUIST NETWORK
  July 4, 2025

Footnote:

Annie Wilson has made her home in the Welsh Borders for over thirty years, where she has the good fortune to be surrounded by both beautiful countryside and her large garden, both of which are a continual source of inspiration for her. She been writing haiku for over five years, and has been widely published in journals in both Britain as well as the United States.

re:Virals is co-hosted by Shawn Blair, Melissa Dennison, Susan Yavaniski, and Keith Evetts (managing editor).

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