Driving down the mountain road, we exit the fog for a moment,
and the world looks like it's been polished with glass cleaner.
Below us, across the valley, the lower peaks protrude through a billowing sea of clouds --
islands of Avalon in
Moved as I am by this image, I want to paint it,
e p i c s t r o k e s
a still breath
and I see,
my intervention is unnecessary;
this perfect poem
has always been.