Morning, early Fall. Hazelnut coffee
and ripped jeans through windows, people
streaming out of and into doors, and blue
peeking around the morning clouds; while a bit of
chill comes by, uncertain it is any longer
a remembered thing. But she remembers, and
the memory is such as brings a smile to
her face like a joyful dawning, the moment perfect
in its fullness, the smell of the coffee shop and
the feel of her own skin like the excitement before
the start of a balloon race, and autumn turns
into the eternity it always was.
Morning, early fall.
