Boundary Day

Boundary Day

There comes a day
every year
when I walk
the metes and bounds
of our farm.

Come hellish ticks
or tornadoes
I grab a copy
of our deed
and start
from
a known corner.

Or sometimes
I just start
anywhere
and take
a wild walkabout
off the text
of the mortgage.

I am mapped to dirt
and rock and tree
and geometry.
Such lies are hidden
in this map.
Such fakery.

I am told that GPS
keeps the lines
true and right,
but I have an old deed,
one that was
resubmitted
after the Great Courthouse Fire of 1918.
Who knows
how right and true
that memory is.

I just walk,
looking for corners
and pointer stones
and that old beech tree
down by the creek
who I know for certain floated
down the creek
in the February flood of ’09.
It’s still not there.
Not on the deed,
not on bank,
only in my memory
which lies a little more consistently
every year.

One unchanging find
is a mushroom fairy ring
I see
in a corner furthest hidden
from the world.
I feel secure
in knowing
that this truth
is on no map
and marks no one’s memory
but my own
failing
one.

This is the day
every year
when I walk
the metes and bounds
of our farm.
You walk yours, too.