The Ring

By John I. Blair

One day she caught her hand
On a hook she'd used
For hanging flowerpots
Atop the rough board fence
And yanked the ring
Right off her finger.
It bounced into the shaggy lawn;
And though we looked and looked
We could not find it.

And so we bought another,
Very like, a plain gold band,
No diamond and no milling,
What Dad could just afford
In 1938 in dusty Oklahoma.
And she thanked us kindly;
But it was too glossy and too new
And lacked the fine patina
That only sixty years of love can bring.

(c)2006 John I. Blair