and as the frost passes
and greying blades of grass shed a thin coat of ice
and the red-brown of trees form a moving tapestry of color
my bus slices through a persian carpet countryside
a warm pocket of air in a cold, brisk Massachusetts morning
an apple cheeked face brushing away tears
as an icy wind cuts grooves into its hollow pores
Bossa Nova
I want to slowly drift into a Bossa Nova wonderland
Suspended by soft whispy clouds and propped up by the playful tune of fingers hitting black and white piano keys
A soothing male voice sings, exuding the energetic warmth of a grocer drifting into his seat
Thinking about the day with caipirinha in hand, occupying the space between work and the comfort of home
The smell of pastries and a light meal streaming steadily into my room
Surrounded by ivory-colored soft leather couches and the cool mist of a late spring evening floating onto my skin– Listening to Vinicius’ Carta Ao Tom 74
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