December winds have stripped other trees naked,
unveiling the dark shadows of little birds,
but the beech trees are still holding onto their leaves,
stained gold by the sun, fluttering like love letters
written on parchment thin as birdskin.
They wish to cling to its twisting arms
and thick weathered slate trunk
tough as elephant skin, and paint their poetry
for the full moon watching over them.
and on each leaf is written in tiny copperplate writing -I will never let you go.