Nothing is in its place. Everything is where it belongs.

I walked by our old house yesterday.
The new tenants trampled the bright orange poppies
I let grow wild among the weeds
in front of the summer porch they are not using right.
The curtains were the wrong color.
The roses made no appearance, and
I missed the blooming of the magnolia tree.

Geography where I am known no longer exists,
and memories of me are slowly wearing away
like an old quilt exposed to the elements.
Only the neighborhood dogs remember. We lock eyes
and nod as creatures of the Earth do.
They—jealous of my roaming. I—of their full water bowls.

I no longer fear your reaction when I return
smelling of bourbon and misplaced rancor
but still pause on Pumpkin Hill before
turning the corner to check my steps and my breath.
My feet tell me Keep walking. Only ten or so miles
to the river, the Great Baptismal Western Boundary, and beyond
Iowa to contend with: fields of corn burned
before the harvest, farmers who can’t remember a season
that wasn’t plagued with either fire or flood.

When I meet them, may I be redeemed.