“Shepherds’ Field in Spring,” Ensign, Dec. 1982, 49
In March the flowers here grow wild. They look
and smell like good cantatas sound—multi-textured,
intricately colored. They take the rocks,
filling with the breeze that sifts down from the next
hill where the Minaret call becomes a chime.
Beside the burial of ages, just
out of sight of Bethlehem, there is no time—
no such conception, no dust to dust:
Only flower to flower. It must have been the same
for simple viewers of the stars. The fear
of not quite knowing disappears on this plain
where Ruth reaped and the heavens came so near
that even now, unqualified by how
the knees have bent—or not—before, the lonely
places fill with this insistent flowering.
The Sun loosens the frost: I know what can’t be shown.