A Poem for a Cloudy Morning: fingers cold on the keyboard, a list of houses to hunt, a cup of tea, and much packed into that memory called "the house where I lived"

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?"