Fleeting forests doth rarely make a sound,
Yet withal, hast thou carved our names sadly
into a wood where would be lovers bound?
or into hotel beds maids made badly?

Spot on the un-spontaneous, O’er lover
‘tis not your wayward ways weighing the way
I have found your smile under covers
but how the wild weeds wed our love astray

Lover, you, have seed’d out all I have seen
But whe’re art thou now? Hidden in thy trees?
I would I were a perfect petal green
Lest I am a tempest drowning out seas

And in ringing silence, our names still grow
Leaving leaves made, so long and far ago