I catch the lovely leaf floating down the maple tree in my back yard,

Smiling at the reds and yellows and oranges and browns, splattered like paint on the ground.

In the fall, my neighborhood is all classic charm and rustic ruminations of

The livelihoods of trees and reveries.

It is the crunch of leaves under feet and walking sticks:

Nature letting us have our way.

It is the old man hanging up his shirt, his pants, his dreams,

After a walk under the glowing umber of the autumn sun.

Outside the frosted glass window, I look upon the snow:

As pristine and untouched as the quiet yesteryears of my childhood.

In the winter, my neighborhood is the glee of school-children seeing the snow for the first time.

It is the white blankets of thick cotton balls floating to the ground,

Warm, despite its frostiness.

It is the bright smiles and lively eyes of innocence in pure marshmallow fluff.

The scent of flowers tickles my nose, a fragrance so sweet it is almost too divine.

In the spring, my neighbourhood is the rainbow buds and blossoms that line the streets,

An embrace of the route to bliss.

It is the freshly mown lawns and the misting of rain in the bright light of the sun,

Casting a kaleidoscopic of colors through every window into every home.

I breathe in the heat, basking in the strong rays of the warm midsummer days.

In the summer, my neighbourhood is the refreshing taste of cold lemonade

That glides down my parched tongue, reviving me.

It is the tanned limbs in the chilly depths of the local pool, all smiles and glistening eyes.

It is the freedom of no more school, the elation of experience, and the harmony of community.

My neighbourhood is my home - constant as the seasons change.