bells

I've walked through the mist forming in the air
at the moment before a rainfall, 
baptized by the water that carries 
memories of my new, and soon to be old, home;

watched the sun rise over the mountains 
facing my balcony, dangled my feet 
from the ledge of a rock and 
written my name there;

walked past gardens with looming sunflowers
and danced with strangers in a contra hall,
my skirt billowing around me,
feet tripping beneath;

drunk Merlot from monogrammed glasses,
four women
sitting cross-legged in a circle cheering 
the fate that brought us together;

explored caves and feelings, not delving
deep into either in fear of what may I find
clinging to the shadows that 
run from my light;

watched as pain and confusion passed through
a community and rejoiced as they
picked up and moved on,
not forgetting;

read Appalachian folktales by my
phone’s flashlight on rides back from 
rock concerts with friends and
eaten supper at two in the morning;

raised my hands in a crowded church and
moved the Holy Spirit to move me, go on
make me white as snow, oh Lord.
wash me of these sins;

passed notes and whispered secrets, 
comforted broken sisters, innocence 
exchanged for adulthood,
an unfair trade, really;

kissed near-strangers in dimly lit rooms, and
felt nothing, while being flooded with 
emotion mornings after, caught in the
early stages of regret.

And now I sit in a rocking chair on 
the porch of a building that isn’t home, 
and watch as the mist swells to droplets, and 
the droplets a storm, 

and I feel the same welling up in my chest 
and sit nostalgic,
for moments that have grown out of the Kentucky grass
as those old bells begin to chime.