Air. Light. Energy. A birth of joy 
As if this peasant earth, free of the embrace 
Of an invisible god, 
Not quite asleep, half smiled, remembering. 
The mountain: here. The mountain :here. Always 
The same, different in all ways. The mountain 
Clearly rejoicing in the morning; 
Smoldering in the moody afternoon; 
No sadder than courage, the mountain shouldering 
The soon familiar weight of dusk. 
And once more earliness. The windy whites 
Of a fresh day, blue that dares not, then dares. 
The mountain's dream at dawn. The playful hush 
That holds the saplings. The bare road turning 
Into the woods. Still expectancy. 
The green voice of the alleys triumphing 
While it recedes. Powerful counterpoint: stark 
Chill of cliffs; the wintry stream. 
Stroke upon stroke, square upon square of white, 
The loaded brush, the palette knife, five 
Yellows, six reds, four blues, only three greens 
Have ripened apples that spill into now, thrust up 
A mountain's life. Paint giving the unseen 
Shapes that cast shadows. Inscapes of delight. Silence, 
Tumultuous or serene. Shadowless mystery.