Finding Cumorah

Late September

washes a season’s green

beyond field and village

and age seventeen;

only leaves rinsed in afterglow

stir at Joseph’s homespun

passing.

He once knelt in

April grove,

drenched with that glory

of Father and Son.

Then summer

wove roots through

his harrowed soul

as those parched by mockery

claimed the heavens

closed.

Autumn wind

shimmers into the trees,

quickening vision

of his pending task;

these hands will

lift voices

silenced by stone,

fullness like morning

tide gathering

home.