Wedding-Ring

My wedding-ring lies in a basket

as if at the bottom of a well.

Nothing will come to fish it back up

and onto my finger again.

                                      It lies

among keys to abandoned houses,

nails waiting to be needed and hammered

into some wall,

telephone numbers with no names attached,

idle paperclips.

                      It can’t be given away

for fear of bringing ill-luck

                      It can’t be sold

for the marriage was good in its own

time, though that time is gone.

                      Could some artificer

beat into it bright stones, transform it

into a dazzling circlet no one could take

for solemn betrothal or to make promises

living will not let them keep? Change it

into a simple gift I could give in friendship?