“From Clay,” Ensign, Aug. 1986, 29
Perhaps like these white stones—
Or like bronze—could I
Under the touch of your hand, Master,
Become a monument?
Look, I am dancing in a roseate circle
With laughing children, our hands clasped.
I am a woman: one of those whose smile
Into a child’s eyes gives milk,
Whose outstretched hand supplies food,
Whose voice through thy word offers good.
From my child’s instrument I hear
Tunes I never played;
I kneel in dark shade to pray.
Even I shape the clay. …
I too flow, like the monument,
In a white touch of music on the summer air
And I fall into the rocker
With the soft rhythm of life
While my hands shape for warmth
With the threads of my care
As though with your arm.
I am learning, Master. …
To stand with these women
In the circle of your garden … alive …
To see myself, a monument,
Until I touch our living hands
No longer stone