Rolling Relief

The hills, they comfort my eyes.
They beckon for me to call them my home.
Trees attempt to reach the sky
They pull the earth as they grow.

The water, it tickles my ears.
It finds it’s way through the woods
(hills are sad when you see the tears)
being pulled by a force misunderstood.

The rocks, they complete my hands;
As if my hands need the work.
The fence is hanging to the land,
a bygone wonder which only to lurk.

The smell, my nose rejoices!
Sweet bliss of rotting trees.
You chuckle, I hear your voices.
Ignorant of smells pointing heavenly.