In the House of the Poet

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 In the House of the Poet


I arrive thirty minutes early, palms sweaty, pen in hand,    pause

at the poetry library.   When, there while I stand,


a little bird tells me "Not yet! You're too soon." 

So, I dash away to be not seen from that front room. 


I drive to get coffee, but end up with a plant, a new journal

a moon garden, a new pen for my hand. 


"Is someone here," the women whisper, as I come through the door

"Hello, yes it's me, I thought that's what it was open for..."


"Welcome!" they say, eyes bright and mouths full

"Welcome in, and thank you dear," I watch for the rules. 


Shoes on or off? Which seat is required?

"Did you see her library? Come, look, be inspired!"


That's when I realize, I've walked into a dream

her home is a vision I've both always and never seen. 


Poems on poems, shelves upon shelves

I stand there and marvel, were they sorted by elves?


Ceramics, bronze sculptures, figure drawings and plants

And a book on her coffee table I just bought     by chance. 

Coffee Button

Send Sarah Emma Ruth $5 for coffee via Venmo

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