My heart pumps nostalgia, and you
You’re one to talk. Leaf lipped
Sympathies, petals woven, fold
And that funny way you walk.

Sink ships, my siren song of old
Blown long across felt tipped Forests,
Cookie crumb groves, and arguably
Better for it, though honestly, who knows    

The cricket’s somber symphony,
From the obviously counterfeit?
The winds sultry destiny  
From the greasy wooden Pulpit.