Knowing I leave tomorrow, I look
fondly, finally, around me and drink
all colors and contours deeply, like wine;
press perfect landscape to imperfect memory.
Leaving a well-loved place forever is
like rising a last time from loving or
like closing an unfinished book or seeing
for the last time a friend who is not of this world.
I wanted to leave a part of myself here,
a friend, a wife, a son to grow up among
these trees and valleys and hills I have loved.
But the summons was too sudden
and my time too brief
and my prophets false.