“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.