“The Garden,” Ensign, Mar. 1985, 62
I spoke with the garden again today.
Sad-eyed I listened as she whispered
Of times and seasons,
Beginnings and ends.
How hard it was to go in a way so different
From how she came.
Tender green buds peeking through the soil,
Wet with morning’s tears
And warmed by loving sun,
She grew to rich adulthood.
And then, when use was gone, she stiffened,
And became desert-like, windblown and tired.
Then tender-bud beginnings were torn root from root
And cast upon the pile.
Oh, Lord, am I a garden?
I know now, I, a young green shoot,
Still soaking up your radiance and love,
Can hardly find a reason to complain.
But I’d like to say a word about my going—
I’d like to do my going as I came.
When (all too soon) it’s time for me to go,
I’d like to follow through my first rememberings
Of dark warm soil and thrilling morning light.
I’d like to feel rich soil breaking round me,
As I spire up toward another sky;
Another morning’s dew upon my shoulders,
A warm breeze blowing like a mother’s sigh.