for Carl Sandburg
We learned “Fog” in English Class
and how it moved on little cat feet,
a tenderness crept across me then
touching a place I could not name.
When our teacher recited “Chicago”
The Big Shoulders of that city held me
lifting me up above Piedmont, South Carolina
allowing me to see the town with new eyes;
and though we never field tripped to Flat Rock,
that 6o minute minutes north to his home
my compass found it later, The Carl Sandburg Home,
Connemara alive with books, trails, music and yes goats.
I found a haven,
a house perched on poetry’s solid foundation,
a sacred dwelling filled
with the remnants of Carl and Lilian’s’ love.
On a boulder off to myself, I found the man still there
plucking that fierce instrument, his heart,
a tall mountain singing a much needed song.
On this mountaintop the cat leapt from the mist
into my pen inking a blue flame lighting a way
that caught hold.