There’s a peace that comes from Kansas, the rolling hills and dusty roads that are left behind. The church ladies of Bucks Grove wove quilted memories into my stained glass mind.

There’s a peace that comes from Kansas, the muddy banks of the fishing ponds in Spring. The Constable place with square nails, canning gooseberries while Uncle Marc would sing.

There’s a peace that comes from Kansas, the old farmhouse pumping jugs from the well. The blue stem grass, the feed lot, the strawberry patch all had that loving smell.

There’s a peace that comes from Kansas, throwing salt blocks from pickup trucks. Shooting quail and prairie chickens for dinner and peeking over the berm for ducks.

There’s a peace that comes from Kansas, floating on the notes of Carrie Moonbeam.   A little girl who had a grandmother that held her while she’d dream.

There’s a peace that will always be in Kansas and a part of me stays there too. At Stormont Vail, holding her hand, and sketching “I Love You”.