Jazz always returns, no invitation required,

with the break of autumn mornings.

Today, John Coltrane’s Ballads,

kitchen windows wide,

coolness of night not yet gone.

Hand-thrown ceramic mug in reach,

a steady friend of years, for as long as it will stay with me, full

of coffee.

A petite novel by Kate Chopin, dry, yellowed pages between my fingers,

a persimmon colored pillow in lap to support it,

and the moment needs nothing more.