My courtship is like autumn chill,
An omen to the nervous trees,
Who hold their warmth by staying still,
Before the comfort of green flees.

The steady chill has no effect,
The leaves resist their urge to fall,
The branches hold ever *****,
Resisting the whistling winds call.

With the first frost there is a change,
The tree becomes vulnerable,
The nakedness of its trunk is strange,
But change is inevitable.

My poetry has worn away,
The leaves you wore for protection,
That frost came when you heard me say,
Magic words of my affection.