The fog

Yesterday morning, Cincinnati was covered with a thick blanket of gorgeous fog. I immediately thought of this Carl Sandburg poem:

THE fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Back in May, we traveled to Asheville, NC to celebrate our fourth wedding anniversary. While there, I insisted we visit Carl Sandburg's house, Connemara. We were both glad we made the stop.

Inside, things were delightfully left just the way Sandburg had abandoned them when he passed away in one of the high-ceilinged bedrooms in 1967.

I have not read nearly as much Sandburg as I should (I hold a B.A. in English) but I do know he is one of the great American voices. This view of him is evidenced by the fact that to peer into the nooks and crannies of Connemara is to see they've left his bookmarks (thousands of them), his trinkets and yes, even his messes. His life was so dynamic and influential that to look upon the vignettes in each room is to touch the surface of his genius.