“Promise,” Ensign, Sept. 1985, 71
A crystal prism flashes to life
In the fragrant chalice
Of a lily
As the tender blush of morning
Swells along the hills.
The lark flings her praise
Into the tremulous air.
In the branch of an olive tree
The spider weaves a banner of jubilee.
A weeping woman sees and hears none of these,
So black is her grief.
The robes of the gardener brushing against the herbs
Release their sweet incense where he walks.
His voice is a benediction.