There is a poem caught in the branches of tonight. It tumbles around my ears, autumnal as leaves. This is the season of staying. I rake the cadence of our lives into manageable piles. When I was young, the russet noise loosely gathered there was perfect to fall or jump or dive in. Irresistible to our stuntdriver hearts. A pile -whether leaves or moments- came together more than the sum of its parts, so much more. Not pieces of the once green snakeskin sloughed off the summer tree, now brittle red days baked. Not pieces at all but a whole falling Fall tapestry, a net for young acrobats to careen into trustingly. Age teaches distrust division, factors, lowest common denominators, and the moments like x are an unknown in the problem, untrustable. That bed of leaves my child heart remembers rustles with a hundred separate brittle pieces, discrete, insular, ready to fly at the slightest gust. Everything comes apart, the center will not hold. Moments stay moments, threads unwoven, dry as spent leaves. There is a poem caught in the branches of tonight. This is the season of staying. I will dress for staying weather. But seasons change.