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The delicate roots of the maple tree in the backyard had never seen daylight. Some of the insects had whispered stories of wind made of satin and tales of an orb of gold that burned the back when the cottony things that give water were elsewhere. The roots had received requests for more minerals from the leaves that lived to worship the golden orb. Now that the roots were soaked in the heat of the sun, they shut their eyes gently in gratitude for bliss of naivete. With their eyes closed, they could see the sun more clearly and weave a dream of dear, soft ecstasy.