Saplings were you and I,
When first I fancied your hair
As it swirled in golden locks
Catching sunlight from the air.
It hid for shame in your tresses,
Your glow was its despair.

But let romance weep,
As it was it was not my heart
That fluttered to your proud display,
And a less noble love
Held my gaze upon that day.

It is not winds of fate
Nor planted seeds
From which our love has grown.
And as years have passed
Trust has wrapped
To cradle bark or bone.
Twisting as two trees,
For fear of falling blown.

Though others might have been,
We are as two trees grown together,
True love’s best end.