Sandburg.

(For Ann Morse)

Back to the days of
Crayola and pop music;
when life was optimistic.
Before the Beats’ words
sprouted my ideas to the
heavens, rooting them in
foundations of debauchery
and debris – I felt home.

When prose was just another
word, and abstract meant
nothing in rhyme; when
words were lost without
blue ink to take notice,
back before odd numbers
became haunting, and
broken heart pieces ran
frantically through verse –
there was one to inspire;
a rose in the rubble.

A library of foundation
in my childhood recanted,
with books and metaphors
still springing up in
free formed rhyme today –
she was a model for the
curious, the knowledgeable.
With a love for dark
chocolate, set to illuminate
all seasons of fall, it is
her voice that I carry in
the outskirts of my mind,
creating pillars of hope
and discovery in my stages
of free verse and rhyme.

I cannot recall when my
words in ink first flowed
through me as my foundation
of love, yet I know she was
there with words and books
in hand, calling out
“Sandburg” as though my
tears couldn’t be more
proud to have a grandmother
like her, on my side.

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