Harvest is a good title for this collection of twentieth-century Mormon poetry with its bounty, variety, and degrees of ripeness and appeal. One feels a generosity of spirit emanating from this aggregate, a poetic vision…
I remember that day perfectly—every violet plum with its orange smudges, the rim of the huge blue canning kettle smeared with thick yellow slime and little tatters of purple peel. It was the day I…
It wasn’t like Sister Farley to chew gum. She took her stewardship over her little swarm of Beehive girls seriously, and normally she was the very soul of decorum, showing us by her dress and…
One of the women inside me
cannot rejoice with anyone.
She stays in the shadows
bowing her head.
Her long hair has never been cut.
Marta Pillahuel was very old. She lived in the country with her pigs on one side and her chickens on the other. Her wooden house leaned to the east and let in the weather—a warm…
She leaves the women in her husband’s house
and makes a slow way home
to her own mother, to friends singing
as they bring sweet butter
for the first month, molasses
Several times a year, I give one of the Relief Society’s supplemental lessons. Jokingly, I call this my token Church job; in truth it means a great deal to me. I deeply value the opportunity…
Who is he from the Sunday pulpit
acquiring the air of sins
with his lecture,
hell’s woes never hidden
Firm as the mountains around us, Stalwart and brave we stand On the rock our fathers planted For us in this goodly land.— Ruth May Fox (no. 255, Hymns, 1985) One of my earliest memories is of my mother…
Came home from school Thursday about 7:30 absolutely exhausted but committed to writing a paper. Although I had planned to go to Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro that night, I forgot to get tickets before it…