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Dad lost his wedding ring
slipping subtly from his front shirt pocket
as he bent in the spring sun,
compressing thorn mounds and cleared scrub
against the stone foundation of the old barn.
We crawled helpfully around that relic,
our standing stones,
hunting for new and ancient clues.
Our sneakered feet unearthed pig skeletons,
cleaned white with the smoothing of time
and bits of green glass bottles,
old and thick as a slice of bread.
With rented metal detectors
we excavated our Midwestern mausoleum
discovering with heart-quickening clicks
a wheat penny,
a handful of square nails.
We never found the wedding ring.
In time, we gave up the hunt.
Mom bought Dad a new ring,
polished and sound in its Christmas box,
and the old band tucked its dull gold
more comfortably into the soil
somewhere on these eighty acres.
A sleeping stone
it collapses into the past,
of the legends of this land,
the buried treasure