Wind-Lightened Bough (Two Versions)

Spring leaving jonquil footprints called and stirred
My slumbrous will--The tree in full-blown flower
Spiralled her petals down and sang the word,
The new green word that woke the fruit-bud hour.
The golden summer danced across the field,
Crimsoned the fruit upon the laden bough;
Matured and ripened me to give my yield,
Yet hear my cry: What of the fruitage now?

Swift came the wind and shrill--Still wild it flings
Its wrath: The bough is lightened, torn and tossed,
And only one dwarfed withering apple clings--
Storm-bent and ravished, I too wait the frost.
Forlorn the tree, yet poignant-sweet my sorrow
If wind-reaped fruit will give seed for tomorrow.

(The above published in Path to Home, 1962)

Version Two:

Spring, and the slumbrous I was stirred --
The tree in full-bloom flower
Spiralling, dancing petals down,
Awoke the fruit-bud hour.

Summer, fulfilling, sang in me --
Heavily laden, the bough --
Ripened, mature for giving, was I.
(What of the fruitage now?)

Muted my song in the wind's wild shrill --
Lightened the bough and tossed:
Only one withering apple clings --
Storm-maimed, I wait the frost.

Mendicant-forlorn, the tree --
Poignantly sweet my sorrow,
If in the ripened wind-reaped fruit
Is seed for tomorrow.

(Published in The Relief Society Magazine, September 1961)

Staff for the Aged

Love is
The staff on which
The aged lean to walk
The quiet, silver-shadowed path
To night.

A Mother's Desire

She thought to build a lovely home,
A place of beauty ... joys.
Geraniums bloomed in window sills,
And on the floor, child's toys.

This thought in mind, she washed and baked
And curled her children's hair,
Made little dresses, trousers too,
Saw little faces fair

Light up as she made lollipops
Or gave them pink ice cream,
Or listened as they lisped to her
Their childhood's fondest dream.

She realized that little souls Must day by day be fed ...
So she would talk of Christ to them
Before they went to bed.

This thought in mind, she'd kneel each night
And send her plea to Heaven,
A prayer of thankfulness and love
To God, for what He'd given.

Masterpieces

I do not need to travel far to view
Great masterpieces in the halls of fame
When from my window I can see anew
Each day, a living picture in its frame.

Sometimes I see the grass upon the hill
All green and glistening in the springtime's sun ...
Sometimes a meadow with a sparkling rill,
Sometimes the glory of a day that's done.

Sometimes a scene of flowers greets my eyes,
Sometimes a group of children at my gate ...
Sometimes I see the glory of the skies
With stars and moonlight--when it's very late.

Thus always through my windows, works of art,
By the great master, creator divine ...
Sometimes the beauty makes the tear drops start.
These living pictures--they are truly mine.