beech trees

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.