by Petya Dubarova

They melted like snow in my hair,
then died like a cropped out plait.
My panting day is dreaming they're here,
my morning pursues them to stay.

Heaping snow in my cave of delight,
I hide some image there, a secret.
Then textbooks overcloud my sight
and swooping tests speed up to hit me.

Sweet holidays, I yearn to have you
in memories that branch like vines,
and in my winter herbarium keep you
like a miniature tear of ice.