Launching into the blue

It's spring again
and as the trees
begin to spin their lace
the line between
the mountains
and the clouds
begins to blur;
and why is it
that these distinctions
ever mattered, anyway?
The blue of distant hillsides
is not so different from the sky;
the purest white of snow,
lightly feathered by a landscape
could be a cloud,
or the delicate wing of a single white dove
and still it would be beautiful.
Why are we so intent on naming?
Let's just find ourselves a canoe,
launch it boldly into the blue
and float in nameless reflections...


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