My father died during a spell
Of terrible weather. It's no wonder
His friend Claude S., struggling
Through snow, leaning into the wind,
Needed to make up a minyan
Should outpace his shadow which
Had been dim anyway, cast
By two-fifths of a moon. Days later
It arrived, thin, tattered, dazed
With a pale, unseasonable flower
Pinned to its lapel.
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