How I wish I could capture the crispness of the air–
As the sun rises over autumn-dressed maple trees
And the little city begins to awake and live again–
And send it to you in an envelope.

In a small town with a lazy, deep-channeled river
That trickles along a stony bottom toward the sea,
The trees are just beginning to shed their garments
For a barer, browner fashion.

The storefronts unhurriedly grind to wakefulness
As the shopkeepers rub the sleep from their eyes,
And as old men trod a well-worn cobblestone street
For their morning exercise.

And despite its archaity, the little city shuffles on,
Each morning as bright and sure as the one today,
With new breath briskly floating on the wintry air:
A promise of daily rebirth.