The Homefront

by William Dunford

(For the families of the Bolivian missionaries)

Martyrdom came earlier than morning frost

Stinging cold

On the faces of the gathered children

Who wondered why

The porchlight sliced the predawn hush

It was still dark and the stake president

Warmed his hands in his breath

And shuffled a little

From side to side

Daybreak brought heat

Thawed their numb fingers

To let pain flow like innocent blood

Then with afternoon came warmth

Drawing long shadows on the old hills

Where throwing stones are cut and

Where still the prophets are born