Rings

Hands cupped
to receive beaded water
from the sprawling rhododendron
I notice the callus
just below my ring finger
white and cracked with age,
skin worn where the woody knot
gives way to the palm,
the cold gold eroding
the knuckle’s hinge,
and I am thankful
for the reminder of my wedding,
that before the fires of cremation
as the mortician removes the ring
that he will notice that burled scar
and see the circles of every year
in which marriage had grown into me.