Days are warm and mellow and a dreamy pale amber sunlight scatters
itty-bitty stars across the garden; across the privet with its November trees
and November birds.
And there’s a
whiff of apples and cinnamon toast hanging from the atmosphere, and mornings are
bringing with them a corduroy-cold air that makes the world sing songs ablaze
in crimsons, goldenrods and brown.
When evenings approaches, the sun shines pumpkin gold and there's a dreamy scent blowing magic everywhere.
The gypsy girl looks
up to the sky. She sees the signs. She hears the songs. Then, she considers it all.
The time of
the falling leaves has come again.
The air is wild with colors and the world has turned old.
Time
to make memories under the autumnal sun...
The little gypsy girl braids up her hair the gypsy way…
She dresses her self in skirts of Ashes, Oaks, and Maples and out
she goes...
in search of the sun—to dream, to fly, to soar in wings of butterflies…
She’s a swirling a whirling a Mary Poppins of sorts
It’s magic, it’s magical
It’s November – spring over the ground
This is a spice shop out here…
sunshine has spread out a
carpet of leaves of every name,
and the gypsy caravan is a flapping of wings under
the autumnal trees.
Colorful draped fabrics, pillows, beads, and a nice
heater on high…
'cause oh it was soooo cold!
Ah autumn. A magic beyond all we do here!
