Gold Winning poem of Autumn Alliteration poetry contest

The trees are blushing in the breeze
Of wily wind’s loving pleas,
And soon will be all bare undressed –
The garish garment of the blest –
We cull their crimson kingly clothes
To stifle not the grass that grows,
Only to find the blades gone brown,
Which are not fit to fill a crown,
Unlike those precious, pretty leaves
That, while dead, no one greaves,
For beauty’s bounty’s in the breast
Of nature ne’er full arrest,
And do we learn that demure death
Is but the inhale of a breath;
That naked trees will nigh be clothed
And not one stage by us is loathed,
Only assumed as part attune
To cycle round and tell us soon
How, constant as the sun does burn,
Nothing’s lost what will return.