Father Made Mountains into Molehills

    “Father Made Mountains into Molehills,” Ensign, Sept. 1985, 71

    Father Made Mountains into Molehills

    We ponder services of love his hands

    performed with no complaining breath to blight

    our innocence. His oak tree image stands

    entwined in these—the pallid winter light

    that failed before the tedium of chores,

    the milk pails freezing, sun not up when he

    would ring with red the stove lids, icy floors

    his carpet. Kindling crackled before we

    would venture in his wake. But he was gone

    with pail and lantern to repeat the day

    and sign with frosty breath another dawn.

    His giant lantern shadow-forks the hay.

    We never knew him weary. Was he ill?

    None asked then how he leveled every hill.