Hauntings. Windchimes and pinwheels:
someone planted them someone hung them.
As whirr and buzz of highway thrums acres,
a wooden American flag — on the porch — folk art landmarks.
I went into the freezer, hungry, curious
finding an icy hawk there in the arm
of the door where frozen peas should be.
I was looking out a laundry room window —
then I knew that I was the first in years
to do so. Funny, the entrances and exits of houses.
The whirligigs in the wind and the incense
inside — the Cherokee names for everything —
The mourning—then, realizing how friends are —
they only remember wind in the hurting
only feel its chill in the healing—still,
there are times when the entire sky falls during.
Remember each other
in the quiet of all wings.
When the highway stops, the windchimes stop, the pinwheels cease —
someone comes home then out of a maelstrom
puts keys down, at random, in a familiar place.