I’ve kept her garden just the way she wanted
and every day I find her in her chair
retracing winding paths, her tired eyes haunted
by grief and memories. I see her glare
and wince at rheumatoid arthritic hands
as, musingly, she twists her wedding ring;
then smiles as diamonds, sparkling from the band,
reflect the dying light… “This coming spring,
it’s sixty years since Joe and I were wed.
My skin was petal soft and white back when
he placed this on my finger; now he’s dead
and love will never hold these hands again.
While diamonds, like our love, will always shine,
my hands grow gnarled holding hands with time.”