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