Joseph Smith, Sr., Dreams of His Namesake

Vermont, Autumn 1805 

And the boy, the milky angel said, 
will be like the wild rain 
that shatters the crops and spins the brittle stalks 
end upon end. 

The crescents of his eyes 
will scythe the slanted hay, 
sever and heap, 
sever and heap, 
and the trunks of his arms 
heave the nations over his back. 

With a book he will hoe the earth, 
break the stiff stone cities. 
Each page will sift the debris of continents 
while kings plant their coins in his steps 
and rake his fields with their crowns. 

And the farmer spoke into the night cloud, 
When shall these things be? 

When the sun’s petals close 
and the moon sags like a plum against the hills 
and the stars drop like seeds 
into the black soil of the universe.