“About Differences,” Ensign, July 1986, 17
What can I say without touching my fingers to what was there?
To what can I turn without seeing?
I have set foot in the places I’ve lived with,
I have quenched and lighted my fires by their hearths.
You, my companion, have handled different clay
And felt different sand about its caprices,
But when we remember the hour upon hour,
The footprints and kisses that push like night at the sunset,
We give private permission to walk the bridges of common enlightenment.
There is need not just to think any more, but to feel.
This is the case: No part of me is done,
No part of you has gone off like clouds.
Only time. All we need are the syllables gathered and regathered.
The flag you hoist bursts with its being there—for me—for you.
Traveler, my hand is filled with yours.