as a wedding band. It molds
like wet clay to my hand. It's not
loud as a freight train, more
like a gentle summer's

rain. I cannot hold the world
inside of it. There’re only a few
that fit. It’s not hot like the
midday sun. It's warm and

sweet like a Belgian bun. My circle
is tight. But it doesn't strangle me,
allowing me room to breathe. Even
small there's room to grow. Spreading

my wings, embracing me through
highs and lows. It's a bouquet of
colorful flowers in my garden. And no
winter has made it harden.