“Morning Worship,” Ensign, Aug. 1989, 7
I walk from the shadows into the morning,
Pulled by your anxious hand,
Torn from the pressing weight of my hours
By your entreating demand.
We walk for a while with your hand in mine,
But I am too slow for you,
You flit ahead of me, graceful and golden,
With your own bright things to do.
I linger. How warm, how sweet the sun is,
Touching my tired face,
The brush of green ferns against the tree bark,
How lovely it is to trace.
I’d forgotten the world held such beauty,
In working, in giving my days
To the serious task of raising children,
My heart has forgotten to praise!