Golden, intricate, lost.

Dropped in a field, forgotten in the sun,

a child’s toy left for the dogs.

Sometime in spring there will be a rain,

and it will be carried to the river. There will be

a rock, and it will change its path.

Someday there will be a girl, with golden hair,

and bright green eyes, who will reach into the water,

and out with it she’ll come.

-

When she opens it, she’ll cry.

Her father’s picture will be inside, next to her

mother’s.

Never will she touch the clasp again, after

memory is dangling from her neck.

She’ll blink back her tears,

and walk to the cemetery.

-

With it in hand.