Where is home? What, and who, constitutes family? Why does one sometimes feel more at home when away? With the poet’s sensibility and the pilgrim’s resolve, Leedahl’s complementary evocations of disparate people and landscapes—both faraway and familiar—put traditional concepts of home to the test.
You won’t find the “house” from the book’s title on any particular map. Its metaphoric doors open into rooms of both love and lament, and the “easily amused” are all those who follow the faint hope of deer trails, wear mismatched socks, or rejoice in the sky’s infinite game of Lite-Brite. You know, they’re those fortunate souls who venture outside the fence of their lives, and leave the blue gate swinging.
“Amidst the banality of suburban life, the ordinariness of domesticity, [Leedahl] grounds a fierce love of beauty, of the moment’s transcendence, of the lonely soul making its peace with the world. She’s not saying, Look at me, she’s saying, Look at this. Out of love, and care for the reader, as evidenced by her careful craft and camera eye, her poems show us a way to see, and an admirable way to be in the world.”