I was instantly taken by this poem by Gregory Orr, drawn to its simplicity, brevity, and depth. For me it evokes memories of living in my grandparent's house - the magic of the rooms, the mystery of the past I didn't live, that was theirs together.
|Untitled [A house just like his mother's]|
|by Gregory Orr|
A house just like his mother's, But made of words. Everything he could remember Inside it: Parrots and a bowl Of peaches, and the bright rug His grandmother wove. Shadows also—mysteries And secrets. Corridors Only ghosts patrol. And did I mention Strawberry jam and toast? Did I mention That everyone he loved Lives there now, In that poem He called "My Mother’s House?"