Widowed

My ring finger holds a secret

A lingering

To be remembered

Opposite side

It sits heavy

Where two worlds collide

My right hand is covered

But my ring finger died

There is no growing season

Twilight moons have become full blown

The growl in my aches have turned full grown

I am childlike from these moans

My pen and paper have turned stones

From the weight of this wind

And death has become my companion

Widowed