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.