When mind's own memoirs wither down to bone
then whom shall know my love in distant years?
For lest I carve her ode on graven stone
tho' grey is colder than my love appears.

Tho' many birches bear my hearted etch
and golden rays may stipple love and shrine,
arborists dead to old will send my sketch
to paper sheets, inscribed of love not mine.

On webbing sites my posts shall render true
but then unused accounts shall too erase
or kin may not so trust what's old, to new
my love that lost in time, will too in space.

This timeless form of type, I now shall choose!
Yet if undone, let love in death, recuse.