To Elizabeth, on her 14th birthday
In a box under my bed, lies my baby.
In this box, a pink ribbon and hat.
In this box is a lock of her downy blond hair,
And her name carved in wood, painted black.
In this box are her finger and feet prints,
And a picture of her with my nose.
In the box are too few scraps of memory,
And the dried petals of a sweet rose.
In a different box under the ground, lies my baby,
With a stuffed toy and some warm clothes.
She is there, in the ground, my poor baby,
Safe now from the chill wind that blows.
There in the ground lies my baby,
Overtopped by a grey-stone rose.