by Carol Schoen

Hunched against the car park
almost too tiny for humans,
the red house slumbers.

Here Melville met Hawthorne,
fell in love, inspired by him,
wrote masterpieces

and here Hawthorne named
the pine branches that bit the dirt,
wrestled and rose again.

The house smiles down
at the lake and town
across the way its nondescript look

hides desire, lust, betrayal
sin. Here the scarlet letter
got its glow. Today it stores

old music, still cherishing
its passionate past as songs swirl
among the needles.

Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.