Crisping

Somewhere
between the falling
of the golden
amber
leaves and the
crisping of
the early morning
frost comes a
breath that carries
belief into the
center of our souls.

A belief that change
can bear beauty
along with peace;
that tearing can
be healed,
but
over time.

The spaces in between
the leaves are filled
with galaxies -

with universes.

The crispings of the
early morning frosts are
spread out over aeons.

Time and space
are in all of the matter of
the mysterious and the
mundane.

They ever call to us
to figure them out.

Everything is aflutter
with a need for
integration and repair.