Poetry falls in the mountains, sorted into secular leaves with uncertain colors. Poetry, the brow of a hillock overlooking a darting stream that presumes to unite the watery realm with the the buoyant air. And so the platonic rising of gooseneck lamp to the forefront of Grecian urn in the tidal urge to grandly sentence.
The colours of language extend to verbs of the greatest going, nouns like big names, and varying depreciations of descriptors to allow for variety. We can be replete (someday). A moon made for vivid replay, a sun of stress beams and moiety, a cloud bank of causative nature: so we weep for joy.
Words soften into panning for the day.