The Trigger

Tall pane of glass, framed, hinged
Swings, creaks, opens wide
Breathes in poets, exhales the hint of old school house painted walls and mimeograph
Senses quicken, memories made and making newly now
Feelings, good and purpose filled, relaxed memories,
Some old, some new
Friends sit, they chat
One wonders... At least one... If their conscious mind
Drank in the schoolhouse scent,
Or if the memories only quicken on their own
Nothing to anchor them this time, but drawing them nonetheless
Drawing them in, inviting them to sit

We come to remember, and some to forget
We entertain, and entertained, we are
Not the slightest regret
Some carry paper, words scratched on Summer days
Moonlit nights
In journals, on scraps of this and that
Thin paper memoirs, with a hint of poem,
Some spice, much courage
Layered with life

Tall ceilings, painted walls, with schoolhouse scent
Of the very old variety, encode new memories on
Experienced minds, unaware these will, without notice
And with no regard to rank or order
Become the days, someday, that are so well-known
These, they say, are the good old days