Editor's Musings: The Death Circuit
My mother was a poet and had her work published in various magazines and newspapers. After her work Final Harvest, a poem about the death of a farmer, appeared in print, she didn’t hear much about it until some years later when she attended a funeral and saw it in the funeral program. After a little investigation, we discovered that her poem had somehow been picked up by funeral homes and put in the books used by clients to choose material for the services.
Mom was big in Minnesota and had fans in Colorado, Illinois, and Missouri as well. Over the years, I would search the internet for her and let her know where her latest “clients” were. I teased her about her popularity on the death circuit, and she would always scold me, “Don’t call it that!”
She died over seven years ago, but I google her poem sometimes to find out where it was last published. I like knowing that a part of her lives on in this work.
He was bound to the land from the day of his birth
His roots anchored deep in the fertile earth
Nurtured, sustained, by the soil he grew
And his life, like his furrows, ran straight and true.
In faith, each spring, he planted the seeds
In hope, to reap his family’s needs
With patience, he waited for the harvest to come
To gather the fruits of his labor home.
Ever turning seasons, the years sped past
Til the final harvest came at last
Then claimed anew by beloved sod
He was gathered home to be with God.
Barbara W. Weber
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