Forty years of Maine farming, father, sons,
Grandchildren, wife, mother, daughters,
Barns and house with added rooms, their
Dream began as single cabin, spring water,
Trees and rocks cleared, produced open
Sunlit field, beginning of Spring Spruce
Farm. Evening with Thurman, agile man,
Age 65, family patriarch, weathered face
And hands, we walked to nearby rocky
Scarp, surveying his life’s work, quiet
Evening, thoughtful, honest moments
He shared with me alone.
“As night falls, I often come up here to think,
To listen,” Thurman advised, pipe lighting.
“Farm and woodland sounds, language of
Its own, understanding requires listening,
Smoke rising on evening air. Quiet reflection,
Memories decades old return, not to haunt,
But as old friends visiting.” After a few pipe
Puffs, he added, “One day this farm will be
Final resting place, having plowed life’s fields,
flesh and blood, last sacrament, reconciliation,
Peace of labour and love, giving myself to
Farm and family.”
In solemn silence I understood, import of
Thruman’s words. His devotion, I reckoned
With, theology and rites we both observed.
I imagined him as youthful man, first axe-
Felled trees, sunlight warming fields. For
Most the night we talked upon rocky crests,
Shared light between us, auras joined, wisdom
Gathered, glimmer of understanding. After
breakfast next morn, I had to leave — him,
His family, and rambling farm, connections
Made, within me, this soul-inspired poetry,
Emblem of evening with Maine farmer.
As writers, we become better listeners to record
life-stories of others, to glimpse their insight, and
to express these experiences in poetic prose.
Thanks for reading.