a little giddy

Sometimes the wordiness has to come out. I feel like a scare-crow stuffed to bursting with the excellent Aeschylus, Stanley Fish's How to Write a Sentence, Owl City, all sorts of art and music, and the ridiculous blue that is vaulted over the world in October, drenched in apple cider sunlight. This is my explosion.

(Only read this if you're willing to stumble through many-lined sentences and trip through tipsily tall towers of piled-up phrases.)

Under her feet a carpet of red-gold leaves lay fallen, each leaf a patch in the quilt, a drop in the storm, a cloud in the sky, a face in the crowd, a voice in the singing, a tear in the darkness, a word in the story, a blow in the battle, a memory in the mind, a blossom in the meadow, a lark in the morning, a light in the city, a leaf in the forest fallen to cover the earth and lead her on.
Smooth, silver-grey trunks stood tall in two impossibly straight rows lining her path, sentinels, arms upraised, dropping leaves to quicken in flickering flight, butterfly candle-flames, and land with tiny whisper-breaths upon a field of fallen comrades.
She walked, slowly, silent in her soul, drawing  into her lungs the autumn air like cool water, drinking the apple cider sunlight with her eyes, ears inhaling the fresh-bread crunch of her footsteps meeting leaves.
She stepped onward, a cloaked figure, passing in and through and out of the sentinel-trees' shadows that striped the sun with shade just as a row-full of windows pierce the walled-in darkness of a passageway with light shed like shadows.
On, on went the hush-fallen road of leaves; on went its lone traveler to be seen.