First bars: da-da da, da da da: piano play.

Steamer on an expresso machine superheats a caramel macchiato in the making. Or a cork on a bottle of California Burgundy pops open.

Jazz-rhythm drums, catching the downbeat and bridging the intro, until the soul-satisfying melody line of John Coltrane’s saxophone strikes–“My Favorite Things,”

Like that first sip, Macchiato or Burgundy. Like that first spit line of a perfect verse winning a ten at a poetry slam. Like that prose-poetry capturing the sublimity of sunlight across rippling water. Like that haiku that shatters expectations.

Before that saxophone explodes in staccato notes and screaming crescendos.

Like our lips enveloping each other. Like our son’s first cry. Like his first step, walk, run, anything. Like facing a North Atlantic sunset together.

And the piano solo, its tattering rhythms. And the flute solo, its aural ecstasy. All leading back to Coltrane again.

Like the first bite of fresh spaghetti and meatballs on a cold November day. Like the embrace after the last tremble passes. Like the bliss of a good night’s sleep after a hard day.

Until he closes with the wind-down. That last melody line, crooning from his saxophone, “When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I’m feeling bad; I simply remember my favorite things…”

Like the first deep breath during the first still moment ever experienced.

Autumn nightfall

last applause falls

to silence

A reprise of this one