We all wear love differently:

A pair of rings, a duo in time's grace,

In secrets held, their stories encased,

One worn smooth, the other etched in line,

A silent saga, their love's design.

My mother's ring, a polished sheen,

Worn daily, a witness unseen,

Its once-decorative carvings erased,

By years of love, tightly embraced.

But my father's band, with lines so fair,

Etched like whispers, a beauty to declare,

Reserved for occasions, moments divine,

Each marking etched in symphonic design.

I thought my mother's ring, always pure,

Unchanged, steadfast, secure and sure,

Yet, I missed the tales that it concealed,

Of a love that time had gently healed.

Their rings mirrored their souls' chore,

One to wear, one to adore,

Mother's worn smooth, a life's devotion,

Father's etched, a cherished emotion.

Does beauty serve when worn away?

Or is its preservation a selfish display?

A mother's love, worn, yet true,

Or a father's, preserved, like morning dew?

In life, as in marriage's binding grace,

Is it better to etch or smoothly embrace?

Is it nobler to wear, though beauty fades,

Or guard its splendor, as each moment wades?

In these rings' tale, a truth resides,

Of love that endures, whatever the tides,

For in the smooth or the etched's embrace,

Lie the echoes of life's unique grace.