Mountains again, mountains... and a place to finish my book

the fencer and the painter is
a dualism picturesque and particular.
draw me as the ocean breathing
above a coral reef
with your pretty palette mixed
in this fluid motion,
we are the ribbon dance
we are the hummingbird
we are the wind in the wildflowers
galvanized
until each sunflower is only electric
with our souls the conduit of eternity;
it is the rainbow and the breeze
born of storms and souls
spinning, weaving, then
pirouette until
we are the fireworks and
we are the waterfall
we are the hearth flames


....


Sometimes wintry days are the prettiest. It is as though the cold were glass, on the verge of shattering into a thousand diamonds, or tiny stars. The sun shone bright over a cloudless sky, and the mountains were ever so elegant: Hood at the peak of beauty, St. Helens, hatless and whiter than pearls and gossamer, Rainier, at the pinnacle of majesty towering over everything - I could not stop staring, though I drove.
It's good to be back in Washington, in the hills and mountains of home.