In 2013, my mother moved to a retirement home, leaving the house she had lived in for 58 years. It was a house like they used to be built – with window sills, plaster walls, and overhanging eaves. She cared for that home like you would care for a child, and it was in incredibly good shape when it was sold.
This was the place all three of her sons thought of as “home.” It was more than a physical structure. It was family. It was comedy and drama. It was experiences. It remains memory.
As I read The Chance for Home, the new collection of poetry by Mark Burrows, I was struck with wonder. Flat-out wonder. Burrows writes poetry with a sense of stillness and a sense of silence; it takes both, perhaps, to understand the things that are ultimately important in life and about a life.
And he writes about home, or at least the chance for home. And he has a different understanding of what “home” is.
To continue reading, please see my post today at Tweetspeak Poetry.