I dreamt we met in verses once again.
The mood was Lithuanian as yourself.
Our convesation was in pen and ink,
Outdated as a winter aeorgramme.
You wrote me notes upon the stems of flowers,
Then told me to destroy your poor scribbles.
Snow to the eaves could still bring Wednesday back,
Though time itself was quite irrelevant.
I woke this morning feeling reassured,
To see my Yiddish name upon the pane.
Rare as a single snowflake is that bond,
That lights old souls beyond all winterness.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.