sunday morning autumn song.

baby rose asking for edith piaf and so that was how sunday bloomed: spinning records and pressing coffee, dim light, wool slippers, nibbles of pear, sprawling like lions across the floor of the nursery. afterwards we went out for our neighborhood rounds: the farmers market, the grand bazaar, the cafe on amsterdam for sandwiches to share, a park ramble under cool clouds holding close the rain, murmuring holy and this and another coffee, turning homeward with pumpkins-in-arms and thoughts of paperbacks and chili.