It doesn’t matter if you believe in god
when the vivid pinks of dawn bloom.
I don’t wonder who painted roses
in the sky. I just love them.
I don’t pretend the world is bright.
When the rain comes,
everything is opaque and the world becomes
a ghost shifting uncomfortably.
The mountain trees blend into each other
over and over, until the green becomes blurred.
To see those layers, and discern
the subtle hues between them—
that is the true gift of living.
The world is transparent, and everyone
lives on top of each other,
like the near invisible layers
of watercolor paint.