I might have raised your hand to the sky to give you the ring surrounding the moon or looked to twin the rings of your eyes with mine or added a ring to the rings of a tree by forming a handheld circle with you, thee, or walked with you where a ring of church-bells, looped the fields, or kissed a lipstick ring on your cheek, a pressed flower, or met with you in the ring of an hour, and another hour . . . I might have opened your palm to the weather, turned, turned, till your fingers were ringed in rain or held you close, they were playing our song, in the ring of a slow dance or carved our names in the rough ring of a heart or heard the ring of an owl's hoot as we headed home in the dark or the ring, first thing, of chorussing birds waking the house or given the ring of a boat, rowing the lake, or the ring of swans, monogamous, two, or the watery rings made by the fish as they leaped and splashed or the ring of the sun's reflection there . . . I might have tied a blade of grass, a green ring for your finger, or told you the ring of a sonnet by heart or brought you a lichen ring, found on a warm wall, or given a ring of ice in winter or in the snow sung with you the five gold rings of a carol or stolen a ring of your hair or whispered the word in your ear that brought us here, where nothing and no one is wrong, and therefore I give you this ring.