Claire McEwen, hopeful romantic.

The Poetry House

There is a house in my neighborhood that shares poetry. They have a box in their front garden, a miniature house with a glass front. And every week or so, they put a new poem in.

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I love it. I make sure to stop by when I’m out walking my dog, to see what new gem they’ve added. Sometimes I’ve heard of the poet. Sometimes I know the poem and it’s like meeting an old friend. But mostly they offer poems that I don’t know.

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Whoever lives there has very good taste. Their home is lovely as well as their garden. And they choose the most poignant poems, with words that stay suspended in my mind after I walk away.

Sometimes I see the poetry curator as I walk by – an older, unassuming looking gentleman – and I tell him how much I love his poetry house. Even my little son loves it, asking to stop and be lifted up and held while I read the poems to him.

What a gift. They are giving us a poem, but they’re also making us the poem. They are reminding us that poetry can be found all around, in the little things, in a quiet moment in a busy day, when a mom and her little son and their funny looking little dog all stop together, and read and wonder. And then go on, just a little bit changed.

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