My mother was small and fierce,
Hair so long and dark
It was thought
Night had fallen early
On her shoulders.

She wore flowered aprons
With big pockets,
To put lost chickens in.
Small, yellow chickens
Almost new born,
Who pecked the grains of corn
Lying in the folds
Of a lovely cotton geranium.

Her wedding ring was gone,
Lost among the garden potatoes.
She wept about that.
Tried to climb the tree
To see if the magpie
Had it in her nest.
For magpies love gold,’ she said.
But we all knew the nest was empty.

For years and years,
She would rub that ringless finger,
Until I was certain
That at some time
The ring had been found

And my small, fierce mother
Had simply cheated science
By rubbing it into invisibility.

©2021 Gwen Grant

2 thoughts on “THE WEDDING RING

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