I don't know how to wrap words around simple perfection.
Home for lunch, I pick two tomatoes from the garden while bacon sputters and pops in the frying pan. A few slices of bread in the toaster and I pull lettuce and mayonnaise from the icebox. Yesterday I picked nasturtiums and put them in a champagne glass, and now they dance - yellow, orange, and red - on the table. The tomatoes are big and I cut thick slabs - each slice reaches past the crust of the bread. (Sometimes the tomato's acidity and the sharp-edged crumbs from the toast conspire and make tiny cuts on the roof of my mouth - the BLT's stigmata.) The mayo is slippery on the tomato but it holds the bacon in place. I cap it with lettuce and cover it with another slice of toasted bread.
My wife's office is right off the kitchen. I call her and we share BLTs for lunch on a Friday afternoon.
A BLT is
the glory of September -
thank God for gardens!
-homegrown tomato haiku
birch and grasses alone on the snow, grey sky indistinguishable. the flat world falls into the edge of time, lifeless, dull wedge of horizon and soundless ...