Rings
Saw down a tree and the rings of cellulose
tell the age. I’m not as old as these trees,
and my ring finger is small,
but swells with heat. I wear rings
infrequently. I used to wear an onyx
for good luck. Where is
that ring now?
The only wedding band I have
is the one my mother gave to me
just before she died,
hoping I might have use for the ring,
flourished with wing diamonds.
I wear it when I want to feel wedded,
as I wake in my double bed,
stare out at the emptiness
where my trees once stood,
and listen to the caw of crows,
the coo of mourning doves
who mate for life,
a lone one there, perched on a wire,
a pink band of sunlight around her neck.
Carla Schwartz is a poet, filmmaker, photographer, and blogger. Her poems have appeared in Aurorean, ArLiJo, Fourth River, Fulcrum, Bluefifth, Common Ground, Cactus Heart, Mom Egg, Switched-on Gutenberg, Gyroscope, Naugatuck River, Solstice, SHARKPACK, Triggerfish, Sweet Tree, and Ibbetson Street. Her poem “Gum Surgery” was anthologized in City of Notions, A Boston Poetry Anthology. Her second book of poetry, Intimacy with the Wind, is available from Finishing Line Press or Amazon.com. Find her first book, Mother, One More Thing (Turning Point, 2014) on Amazon.com. Her CB99videos youtube channel has 1,600,000+ views. Learn more at carlapoet.com, or wakewiththesun.blogspot.com.
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