The green it has grown
over the last nine months

is being overtaken by the coming
crimson, signaling the inevitable fall.

And though the nights are now chillier,
I stand beneath this sun-streaked tree

half hoping the chill and wet never arrive,
that we might live in this in-between,

not-too-hot, not-too-cold, perpetual
Goldilocks state of just right.

Which is where I am temporarily rooted,
reminding myself to tuck this moment

into my storehouse of memory for later,
when, like squirrels unearthing peanuts

they have tucked into the soil of my backyard,
I will reach into my pocket and find it,

delighted by the warmth of the forgotten.