I’ve traveled
like your trains,
speeding out from your brick laid library
carelessly following the tracks.
Hurtling myself
to a destination barely guessed;
rail after rail flying out behind me.
Before the beautiful libraries,
you were host to powerful locomotives,
burning wood, then coal,
and spewing cinders.
And then the libraries.
You laid buildings like tracks
around the nation.
Depots for curious minds.
Safe passage for the dreamers.
Thank you for the answers,
but more by far the questions,
your library gifted me.
Thank you for the kin I found,
companions of the stacks;
Americans who built the books,
who laid the tracks,
and stoked the engines.
Transportation to anywhere,
without a ticket.
Sandburg, Frost, and Emerson;
Dickinson and Whitman;
the station masters,
American conductors, travelers themselves.
And up above the libraries,
the stars shone as they shine now,
on the heads of the readers;
of the travelers of the mind;
who know no walls and no restrictions.
Though iron rails may rust,
the routes whose crossroad is the library
go on forever.