Winter Pome

 In winter my wedding ring loosens,

Slides free and skitters beneath a café table,
Disappears under the car in a grocery lot.
I hook my finger when I reach into the dryer,
Or raise a key to the front door.

Across the valley, night lights flare
Through the sunroom glass.
I run my thumb along the Celtic knot,
Asking again what the ring still holds—
Time’s circle on a thinning finger.

We are no longer what we were.
No one is.
And winter presses our dark forward,
Down into the valley of another quick year.