A Poet For All Seasons

I am not the perfect poet, you and I both know it, though surely we could share, our time with rhyme and reason, springtime, snowdrop, couplets, summer days of sunshine sonnets, autumnal skies of falling paper leaves, winters filled with warming verse? Perhaps I've been too scared, to tempt, or fraternise with fate, now having taken too long, and having left it all so late, to pen this page, with words of alliterative verse, against this world of woe, where life's adversities seem to get worse, I'm plucking up the courage now, to ask if you and me, could possibly agree, provided it's not problematic, provided this is not treason, that I could somehow be, your poet for all seasons?