Your Ring

Your ring makes my hand happy.

It lends a reassuring weight

to my right index finger, like a

counter weight to the hard bone

it encompasses.

 

My fingers move more nimbly now,

and my wrinkles are smoothed away

by the shining silver

and elegant infinite hearts which

circle and gently hold on

to the lowest point of my arm,

number four of five,

a finger quite useless for anything

other than wearing a ring.

 

Now that it is decorated so

it looks beautiful,

and I wonder

as I cooly regard my hand again,

whether this was my

fingers purpose all along,

and it had only been waiting

for the right man.

 

I met him, and

my hand demanded a ring.

 

Other parts crave other things,

and are periodically satisfied,

but my hand is positively grinning

now, so I think that

I have done well,

and I have found the right man.

 

The ring flashes in the light,

silver, light, fantastic

band of hearts,

delicately comforts me each and

every time I look at it.

 

Just like he does.

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