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Outdated as a winter aeorgramme.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,
Wednesday, December 23, 2009