The Ring

I contemplate its presence,

a simple, burnished epitaph caught in an accidental sun; life empty without a finger. Name and date still legible, no longer hidden, pressed and twisting against taut skin.

Lying accusingly on the dresser,

untouched, unwanted, its worn circle etched with the work of living; earth, weeds, dishes - carrots and potato-peel. But not the love it once encircled, admiring faces gazing reflected in the shine of new spun gold on entwined fingers,

stretched across a lover’s table

laid for only two; clinking against crystal champagne flutes bubbling with promise, frothed in celebration.
  …….. But now alone, experience done, like some scarred fighter fallen on hard times punched with the hole of drunk remembrance. An ornament of time, nevermore to be worn, never thrown. A golden artifact gathering the dust of neglect and the dull tarnish of fading memory.