He wanted to preserve her.
In a sweet dress on Willow Street.
Next to the fruit, across from the meat.
She thawed.
He called.
She gets to learning, the oven is burning.
Pages turning, and her stomach churning...
Time had a way of talking,
and a short list of showing.
They made them on Sundays.
Ate them by the dozen.
But she was left on ice...
No warm cookies in the oven.
