The french fry caterpillar webs will blossom soon, they are tiny freight trains that are alive, the trees pregnant with ghostly and elaborate cocoons, the silent mushroom valley will be in full bloom. There will be a gentle white mist breathing over the glacier ice like a lover, a squadron of pensive ballerina birds wheeling high over the tree tops and pirouetting in colorful spirals, a faint whisper that says I will kiss your closed eyes and long lashes.
You will see a perfect yellow fractal playfully announcing the arrival of her light, a purple ray piercing the veil like Viking swords that can never rust, a small gold coin under the black water of a forgotten well, a fevered dream among the old stones and clouds of chalk dust from frightened gravel.
Words will be written in every hue, dotted within intricate patterns like fat milkshake cows in the pasture, a red dirt road and countryside of painted pastel in the dark chocolate bark, the lime green crayon colored lily pads of the secret moss pond, drowsy eyes open for the first time, the reflecting sunlight of glasses peeking through the mountains, they turn into flowers that can fly.