for Carl & Lillian Sandburg’s Connemara, Flat Rock, NC
As a child I was taken
to visit Connemara
as I remember
a little display of concrete poems
in the shapes of shoes
next to a typewriter
on an orange crate
let me know
I was taken
to visit poetry
All the books on the staircase
Said never back away from love
Of the word
O what is louder than the thorn
in the window of her thunder?
Wild Rutabaga Stories growing in
a thousand creeks under her ground
A song’s still a song
but sounds quite different when it’s grown
I took an upside-down photo
of their stationery on a shelf—
a copperplate sans serif
If it was a snake it would’a bit me
beaming in some past
I keep desiring like walking
down the main street
of a town that feels like
wearing a vintage dress
As we exit through the gift shop
the great-grand children of Lillian’s goats
reproduce in stuffed animal glory and bleat
O What is whiter than the milk
Every evening after dinner Carl opens up
the American Songbag of his mind
Singing O Susanna and such-like
banjo and grandkid on his knee
Some books he wrote
on an outcrop of rock
overlooking the valley
Since the beauty of the mountains
would be too distracting
to get much done
Sandberg wrestled upstairs
with tomes on Lincoln
in a room with no view
Now over ten thousand books
in a nine thousand square foot home of
twenty-two rooms and a million acres of sky
Connemara means the sea
