Poezja

A state of New England,
The ninth colony, to be exact,
Is anything but old school bland.

Her land is something of a beautiful craft.

The air blows wild and clean,
Through the most vibrant autumn leaves,
With its mountains, hills, trees, and life,
It seems that her land will never breathe its last.

The trees that whisper,
For if you leave, you might miss her,
For the greatest problem one could face,
Is deciding how to enjoy her grace.