You know, this is the closest I've come to that year in a very, very long time. The anticipation lacks soul though.

It's like this: A single Autumn leaf shivers to the ground, where the wind,
inexplicable in it's intoxicating scented spikes, picks it up and drops it outside of a bookstore.
Now the bookstore, oh, that's where the magic is.

The pages all smell like the trees they were made of, that is to say a nondescript mix of several,
and that's okay. I love that smell. Not as good as the shoe scuffed carpet, but close.

You find this one book, maybe it's dog-eared, its jacket is a little torn, or even missing,
and the spine's a bit warped, like a true scoliositastic book should be. It's in the most unlikely of places, under the 13th edition printing of a well used history book,
at the bottom of the lost-and-forgottens,
when it hits you.

Your fingers sing along the traces of gold pateen left in the crooks of the title,
reveling in their familiarity. It's not that you remember it, or have even ever graced the cover with a glance, but you've found it. One of those books.
Your grandchildren are going to find it tucked under a floor board with a tin of needles and crayons...the square kind.

Breathe deeply, remember the heady smell of newly turned dirt, feel it under your nails
Look up, see the silver dollar moon and reflect it in your heart.
Whisper back when the breeze tells you a secret.
Please don't forget this.