Rosie, is that you, in that box?

With those cute llooking pawprints?

And the locks of hair?

And the pawprint in cement?

I could not imagine you in there,

in that tin, in that box.

Which I opened tonight, and felt a great shiver,

and threw out the tag, and the print, and the locks of hair,

and the candle, and the photo of the colored bridge.

Which I did not ask for, and you did not ask for

and  have nothing do to with you or your life.

But were meant so well.

Did I do the right thing? By putting you in this box?

I will get you out of there, first thing in the morning,

and set you free. Again. And for good. I promise.

Is that you, really? There in that box?

Calling to me

“Love, love, love,”

“and walk, walk, walk, not run,

through the golden fields,

and into your life.”