Floating on a bed of soft cotton clouds
his base wrapped in fog like an invisible blanket
the mountain seems unreal, faded, wispy, dreamlike
pale, translucent against the morning sun
delicately drawn in soft charcoal on the blue-white horizon
and then brushed away, leaving only a shadow.
Strange that the summer mountain should seem so remote;
his winter cousin stands out so sharply at sunrise.
Perhaps after the clouds of spring
he is not yet ready to show himself.
Perhaps as his snowy winter blanket recedes
he is shy of his bare slopes.
Perhaps summer is when he rests.