“Seasons,” Ensign, Aug. 1988, 53


    It is past.

    This growing season is past.

    How sorry I am to see


    Upon my unfinished goals and dreams.

    I cast my eyes upon the harvest.

    It is good

    But not complete.

    Yet this must be my offering.

    How cold the winter is.

    How silent!

    Yet the snow is vibrant with

    Dormant dreams.

    It is ahead.

    The sun is radiant

    And bids me

    Open up my heart and

    Listen to the Gardener who knows me best.

    Take the seeds He gives me.

    Trust His time to plant.