still going

our teacher in the sixth
grade
would read to us
from books such as a wrinkle
in time.
she'd turn
the lights off
and tell us to put our
heads
on the desk, onto
our folded arms.
close our eyes,
she say, then open the windows
to let the spring air
blow in.
in her strong soft voice
she'd read
page after page
into our new minds,
and off we'd go.
some of us are still going.