Just once, a tree without roots. . .

Under the humble pen tip let the words flow like little children frolicking in the woods, racing, laughing, falling joyously exhausted into scattering piles of crackling leaves . . ., let them flow, let the words flow . . . red & gold & russet-green, colors in crackling sounds of scattering mounds of sun dried leaves . . ., let them flow . . . a great fluorescent globe, eggshell orb of harvest moon washing doubt from obsidian night . . ., let them flow . . . in swift little white-water streams, in waves thrust silvering into the light, forever freshened by the timeless spring . . . .