Where the months join

To think you know me
and might figure me out.

Well, that could be done
if you walked through my life,
footprints might stumble
so near to copse memories
that the woods would yield.

And I could be whittled down
with what’s left behind,
sticks sharpened to within reason;
little peg dolls successively older.

Freestanding carved effigies,
although wood weeps so easily
when stripped of the bark.

But, I wouldn’t presume
to do that to you,
for trees drop their leaves
only when they wish.

Luckily for me, you are my season.