The Opal Ring
he made for me
sits there endlessly
alone in the small
wooden box it came in,
It is now hidden,
shining with a wisdom
forever stone deep
but no more and forgetting
why.
Yet this finger remembers
a quick, colorful warmth
slipped naked within
its chilled simple elegance.
The Opal Ring
he made for me
sits there endlessly,
the beauty a nerve
unwilling to be touched
still;
one day it will only
Dust with old sadness
unwilling to be touched
then, too.
Copyright © Rachel Brower | Year Posted 2008
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