on old route 40
where the road
winds up the hills
and curves kiss
the rocky creek beds
a house sat in the nook
an old wealthy valley
of Oil Springs
two stories
hand carved wooden shutters
a broad concrete porch
with iron columns
I remember the tacky windchimes
Swinging and twisting in the wind
wild colors and shells become a blur
they were odd and out of place
swaying about
he told me he got them
from a woman who
he called a peddler
she sold
for a sandwich
Pall Malls
and gas
for the road
he always felt the need
to bring home whatever
odds and ends were offered
he’d say
“they belong to someone
they just needed to get
where they are going
maybe to find their person
or waiting to be found”
I think he hung them there
on his porch
in case she ever came
back around
she’d feel like
she was finding her way
home
we called them whirly-gigs
I wonder
where she is now
Courtney Music, Morehead