August 22, 2004
Blessed are You, Yahh our God, creator of growing things, for making cherry tomatoes that twist off the vine into the waiting palm, each one a benediction for the palate and throat. For the rows of dill at our community-supported farm, as high as my shoulders now and beginning to sag with the weight of seed, where I can stand and talk with a friend while we snip handfuls to take home. For corn from the farmstand down the road, each ear crisp in its silk dress. For peaches we can grill and eat on salads, drizzled in balsamic vinegar. For the cucumber harvest I preserved today, now four gleaming quart jars (and five sweet little jelly-jars) of half-sour dill pickles to open and eat when midwinter's unimaginable snow whisks against the windows of our house.
Blessed are You, Yahh our God, source of life, for making the rains fall in their season (days for reading and writing, for folding laundry and polishing silver) and then following them with sun (daisies to deadhead, the lawn to mow). For the cool night air that slides through our open windows and screen doors, inspiring me to dig out my slippers and put the kettle on for tea. For the Green River swollen and heady with unseasonable waters, glinting today under the reprieve of a cloudless sky. For the crickets, who seem to be chirping more loudly than usual tonight, maybe mindful that the end of their season is coming.