I have no faith in these hills.
They are too green, the colors to deep.
At night when the fireflies dance under
almost-ripe grape vines tangled in earth,
I wait for them to disappear.

I can feel myself forgetting the smell
of the sun-dried roses and half-cleaned out fire places
the smoke of wood and ash,
the strange bugs I find on my damp towels.  

I can taste the blue of those far away hills
smell the red of the ancient brick of
faraway conclaves of ancient cities.
But I already forget their names.

I watch the rain tumble down the hills covered with cobblestones.
it's midas's touch deepening the colors of the stones, the fossils of labor.
I listen to the sounds a mountain makes when it cries, nursing it's million year wounds.
The green river never stops pouring through it.
But I can't remember the cause of its sorrow.

But I know the cause of mine.
I will leave these hills.
And paint them into a postcard.
or a poem.