You give me golden symbols, in the main
reminding me of you, but still, a chain
of loves, both past and present, and of dreams
I harbor still. Each thoughtful icon teems
with meaning, linked around my wrist. It seems
I can’t unlock that circlet. Boon? Or bane?
This chain of gold, quite firm upon my wrist,
needs your touch to unfasten its tight hold.
Your hand, not mine, opens the tiny bolt.
My fingers fumble. Yours, it won’t resist.
Marguerite Beck-Rex © 2013