I like this place.

I like this time of year.

And I like this time of day,

The way the sun reflects so gently

Off the bricks of the buildings across the street,

Not like the brutal sun of summertime.

And on the mountain,

The light casts shades

Into the crevices and dimples

Of the wooded, colored, slopes.

And the hush of Autumn blankets everything

Here on the street with the peace

That only visits once per year.

I want to wrap it up and carry it

Into the cold and clouded

Meager days of winter,

But I can’t.

All the same, it’s precious.

How can I possibly complain about anything

When there are days like this.