This afternoon I became fascinated

By the remarkable possibility
That thoughts, when no one is looking,
May quietly wander away.

Mine certainly do.

I leave them stacked quite neatly,
One beside another,
Like books upon a shelf.

Yet later...

One is gone.

I look beneath the sofa.

Nothing.

I search the hallway,
The closets,
The quiet corners
Where forgotten things
Prefer to wait.

Nothing there, either.

I begin another thought,
Determined this one
Will remain exactly
Where I leave it.

It behaves beautifully.

For almost a minute.

Then I discover
It has vanished too.

Now this would trouble
Almost anyone.

Except...

Each missing thought
Returns before evening.

None arrive tired.

None arrive frightened.

Each one comes back
Looking somehow...
larger.

As though it has wandered
Through magnificent places
It has no words
To describe.

I've questioned them,
Of course.

Not one has answered.

They merely settle down
As if nothing unusual
Had happened at all.

Only one clue
Has ever presented itself.

Whenever you happen
To pass nearby,

They all come home
At once.

I've stopped trying
To solve the mystery.

Some riddles,
I think,

Become less wonderful
The moment
They're explained.

So if another thought
Quietly slips away tomorrow...

I hope
It finds you.

Because every one
That ever has...

Returns believing
The world
Is kinder
Than it remembered.