Dripping from the sun's golden grasp, crystalline drops cascade through imagined peanut branches above. These droplets, each laden with luminous memory, are ephemeral echoes of warmth kissed bliss. An untenable harmony borne tumult under the waning light. Yet some, like untouched apples sulking stubborn in edges fringed with leaf confetti, resist the sun's serenade.
The breeze embroiders silence onto conversations half-breathed, like voices toiling at solvent edges—mixed with vanilla and autumn's careless humor. Absurdly, you hold a net, woven with filaments of reckoning, between these harmonies.
Have you tasted them? Little sun drips, succulent and tart-like whispered perfume. Morsels plucked by hesitant breezes; they lean towards peanut trees, reaching yet relinquishing their embrace constantly—a dance in orange and ochre hues.