Just spent a long weekend at Mimi's place in Northern Wisconsin. You can see it here and the poem fills in with a little more info.
Imagine eight hundred square feet
on four levels. The bedroom's up,
the book nook's down.
You walk outside and around
to the guest room
with its window on the lake
Rustic bare wood walls and studs
with book shelves in between,
a wood burning stove
we once lit in August
on the way to Manitoba.
No microwave. No tv.
The phone's a wood-carved duck
that quacks when someone calls.
It's a place to write and play Scrabble,
beat drums and make up songs.
In this northwoods house of words
friends gather -- whatever happens
is just what's supposed to happen.
(Webb Lake, Wisconsin)
(The poems also in "All Over America: Road Poems," see www.foothillspublishing.com for info on the book and other sample poems)