Poetry

By Mary L. Bradford


Circling Winter

I pushed my shovel
against the first light
Snow
I wasn’t opposing it
I only wanted to
Show
That I could make a path
from my house to
Yours
And from your house to
Theirs
And back again to
Ours.

Teaching

I waft
with gentle picture
or a quiet testimony
some
tiny seeds
of truth
across the room.
Does settle or sowing
touch the child
who sits and mopes
or pokes and jokes?
At least he’s there
breathing the air.
And if I wave much good his way
some of it might stick and stay.

Prediction

If I chose
Not to bear this child
That in me grows,
Giving in
To the well-respected
And learned
Philosophies of men,
There would be
No crash of thunder
At my decision;
No lightning burst
Or loud, condemning voice
From heaven,
Only bitter knowledge
Forever after
And the quiet, pleased sound
Of Satan’s laughter.

These Treasured Years

Once I thought
When our children are grown—
Educated, married, and left our home—
Then I will feel old.
I did not: I felt a sense of accomplishment!
Once I thought
When we are grandparents—
Watching grandchildren grow tall and learn of Thee—
Then I will feel old.
I do not: I feel proud!
Now, as I share these treasured years
With my dear and faithful husband—
Do I feel old?
I do not: I feel grateful!

Temple Thought

I waited for him
On the other side
Of the temple veil, calmly.
I knew he would come.
Then I wondered
What might my agony be
If death separated us
Because we forgot
Our temple vows,
And I waited for him
Throughout the eternities
In vain?