The Chill

He closes her eyes and begs for the past
memories to fill her sullen heart.
In the darkness of her thinking
she finds one, joy spilling from its rim,
and takes the scene, prepared
to relive the already rewoven story.
Despair snatches that all away.
“No!” he screams at his own desperation,
pitying what there is left of himself.
In quiet disbelief they stumble upon something
else, something shared too much in
twin depressions: that Memory.
He wished it had not come to this,
but already knew It well,
as she strayed to touch Its golden field,
she broke open what they had sealed.
Bleeding from careful wrapping
was the fear they had to share;
the little girl, uncared for, was always, always here.
In tears the woman ran to save
what she knew could not be real;
The man followed, his echoing steps surreal
to face the past and this memory
to which both of them held fast.
Just as touch would be gratified,
iron bars slid in, holding
the picture until it was only that
a model of what lay within.
Both cried, both wept
as the liquid was swept away
by harsh hands of reason
and the coldness of the season.