That much can be said with a show
of rings is a matter of a (quite small) intrigue.
Rose gold: vows belonging to another woman,
rescued from a gutter, polished, made safe.
Circling flowers and geometry saluted in silver,
remembrance of happiness, gentleness against skin.
Lustrous pearls held to gold, tenacious, demur,
once a standard bearer for womanly ways.
Moonstone of the dreamer’s way, how it glows of
night’s illumination, an auspicious design.
And a silver band created by youthful hand,
never mislaid or forgotten; 55 years encircling
the finger devoid of a forever wedding ring.
They each nestle in a handcrafted jewelry box.
They last longer if respected, kept close.
Unlike expectations, wishes or promises,
they own their places; I can keep them occupied.
These rings know my skin and its deeds,
stories of sleight of hand and mind,
songs of a topaz and turquoise heart,
an earth/water, wind/fire body.
The droughts of spirit replenished by deepened wellsprings.
The love stretched over chasms, as a bridge–
yet with few hands well met to break the falls–
here they are, just good reminders,
a glimpse of what has been, or not.
That much can be said by a show of rings-
if fractions of truth–
an adornment of metals that hold
history. A few minor and major matters,
a circuitous path ’round the years.
A collection of beauty found, words unspoken, tears unshed.