My friend’s counselor prescribed
“Be still and know what gives you peace”:

A shepherd dog? A woman’s touch?
Adagio for Strings?

“Painting,” he said. She heard landscape,
the watercolor breathing in and out of tides.

He meant house: rooms, walls dispelled
beneath his brush, cans of paint,

a child’s palette like those layered boxes
of crayons, their colors surprising

as Creation, spontaneous Joy,
transcribed Healing.