David & Mary Lou Meyers at their 50th wedding anniversary
At my 50th college reunion from Douglass College a few years ago, I met my classmate Mary Lou Meyers for the first time. (She was on a different track and lived in other dorms) She is the poet who wrote the text for a reunion video that I still have. She is a poet and I told her about my website. Since them, she has become Menupause’s resident poet and every few weeks she sends me poems that I post. Love her way with words and her topics are very interesting.
Sadly, she emailed me a few days ago that her beloved David died while out in the field of their farm. She wrote two poems that I am posting in honor of David and Mary Lou’s life together. One was written right after he died and she plans to read a longer version at the memorial service. The other was written two weeks after he died. Both are heartfelt and revealing about their life on their farm about one hour north of here.
Too long had he lingered in the sanitized world of the engineer,
bonded to one massive company or the other, form-fit,
tied to the Golden Handcuffs in a rigid role,
There was something unsullied in his Nature,
an Earth Bound Hunger never satisfied.
The defining moment came when he saw the stretch
and reach of the 76 acre Farm.
The Farm released his pent-up passion,
the land promised freedom he had never known before.
No work-a-day rountines, he became a sower of seeds,
magnified by his own vision alone,
a place where the heart could sing
for the spirit is a powerful thing!
We all have the same potential passageway to old age,
no longer in control of every facet of our lives,
when our body betrays us in certain ways
which seem insurmountable at first.
But on that July 10th morning,
in full possession of his faculties,
he was bent on a project he had not yet completed.
The air crisp and clean, the body and soul united
in one perfect dream, he took what he thought he needed,
enthroned on his John Deere tractor,
Ruler of all he surveyed, and released himself
into the unfathomable, forever linked to the land
he loved more than life itself
to penetrate before he died.
Two Weeks Gone By
Almost two weeks after you died,
still I haven’t cried openly;
a rush of ripening pink clouds
stray across the sky;
a yellow finch on the screen
on the room you made in the barn,
but Honey Blossom, our cat,
jumped to intercede,
a very natural act
for this was unchartered territory.