The woods around us are green. Its streams are green too. Green are the fallen gates, and the rains, green, falling. Green is the path we must take.
The last time we met this way was green. “Go” is infra-green, not yet sub-lime.
Green is the sapient night, which strides over the heads of sleeping astronomers. The wind was green, the last time you looked at the stars. Green is the millicandled parallax, unparalleled in her nonpareil apparel, and the remoteness of iceburgs on exosolar moons.
The metaphysical pines are green, for how their branches dangle at the corners of the mind. Green are the apri-orreries, for they are in usufruct to our future planetaria.