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?" | ||
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