The trees are thinning now,
Like an old man’s falling hair.
Little limbs and leaves
Litter the mud brown ground,
And fewer robins are roosting.
Apples and onions sleep in deep cellars,
Gray curtains of winter come down.
My heart holds secret warmth for you only,
So while all about is cold and bleak,
That dear soft warmth will remain,
Contented ‘til we unending meet