They arrive unannounced,

soft-footed as a child,

slipping through the doorway

of a quiet mind.

Some glow like lanterns-

warm and steady,

held in the palms of our hands

as if time itself were something

we could hold and keep.

Others are windblown-

a scent of pine, a porch board creaking,

a voice we almost recognize before it fades

back into the quiet shadows.

There are the heavy ones, too,

the ones we carry in the deeper pockets-

I walked through a metal detector

Every morning, Monday through Friday.

I had to put my bag through an x-ray

And have my person wanded.

It felt like I had four years probation.

It was normal to me. How baffled was i 

When i realized it wasn’t normal to everyone

At that age. 

In the rooms there were no windows. 

Just a big one that wrapped around the hallway