A psalm to be said in the kitchen on Monday morning

Blest be the kitchen daily white with the harvest, cupboards holding, unfolding

the fruits in their seasons:

cherries, apricots, pears,

quince butters, grape jellies,

blackberries rounded in

hearts of darkness,

all joyfully jarred.

Blest be that preserving,

safe-keeper of sunlight

held the long winter to lighten

the dark days.

Blest be their preparing,

the peeling and coring,

the pitting and slicing

the boiling and sieving,

baptism of jars

in cleansing hot water.

Blest be the gestures

of turning the jar lids,

the pleasure of hearing

the snap of the seal

that keeps them from evil,

the ceremony of putting each jar in its place,

assuring supply at the time it is needed.

Blest be the order on kitchen shelves.

Blest be the vegetables

brought in grace from the garden

with silver shears -

pods packed with plenty,

light-leafing lettuces,

beets and potatoes

rooted and grounded

in love of God's earth

Blest be the baking -

the measuring out

of flours and sugars,

of salt and of shortenings -

the beechwood cylinder to roll out the pie crusts,

circles of worlds

with earth's fruits in the filling,

as our earth with its various crusts

holds the warm centers of molten magma.

Blest be the clearing, the setting in order,

dross to the compost to mutate to gold -

the sluice of hot water on pans and on dishes,

the scouring away of what is not needful,

the drying and shining.

Blest be the kitchen.