My giant dreams recline upon those tree tops; for in my cerebral conjurings I rest up there as if it were my bed. I lay there in titan size, head raised on upward palms, one ankle supported by the other. A canopy, a hammock, a poets' heavenly loft.
Into the treetop song, so gaily green, come the sweetest notes of autumnal pink.
The treetops are a love song of greens for any soul still able to hear.
The treetops flourish red, golds and greens as if they had been flourished from the pocket of a great magician.
In the lengthening light of the afternoon, the bouquet of treetops is autumns ode, an ode I hear with my soul.
A verdant canopy of greens dapples the ground, allowing broad foliage to flourish.
The treetops are the stage of the birds as they perform their sunset chorus.