The mornings are bathed in fog now
as if the earth were filling her bowls
with some luminescent porridge
to help the sun ward off the autumn chill.
It softens our wakings, letting us linger
a while in the world of wispy dreams
before the illusions of the day solidify
around us, pulling us once more
into the stories of the plays that are our lives.
The oranges and golds of the remaining maple leaves
gleam in the filtered light, bright reminders
that we may play out our stories with lustiness and joy.