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.
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.
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