In dreams we chance, my friend of old,
Wherein there is still room for guile:
Your countless freckles, lies betold;
Your smile approves of shared denial.

And when I wake, no longer care
That mathematics was your choice;
That frozen numbers were your flare
As much as I in words rejoice.

Upon each spring that comes around—
Soft breeze, it bears sweet pollen’s smell.
A reminisce of sight and sound
Of childhood gone, a distant knell.

And now as winter flowers bloom,
The distance is too long to stride.
Departing of past friendship’s gloom
Till words and numbers must collide.