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“Seasons,” Ensign, Aug. 1988, 53


It is past.

This growing season is past.

How sorry I am to see


Upon my unfinished goals and dreams.

I cast my eyes upon the harvest.

It is good

But not complete.

Yet this must be my offering.

How cold the winter is.

How silent!

Yet the snow is vibrant with

Dormant dreams.

It is ahead.

The sun is radiant

And bids me

Open up my heart and

Listen to the Gardener who knows me best.

Take the seeds He gives me.

Trust His time to plant.