Rebirth of the Silver Water Pitcher
With the help of a yardstick,
I slide mysteries out of our corner cupboard
discovering vases, candlesticks, plastic bowls,
salt and pepper shakers lost to the ages.
You, sir! You’re still here?
I ask a tarnished huddle of ear and mouth.
Dormant, forgotten, neglected,
the water pitcher does not speak.
All through a Charlie Chaplin film,
I warm his cold silver flanks with polish.
He comes to life, shining miraculously,
laughing at the film antics.
I must have just dozed off, he says,
thinking it is still the 1920s.
No, I shake my head. I found you at a flea market
decades ago—then you continued your snooze here.
Looking about, he appears stunned.
Surely, this is not the grandeur to which he
once must have been accustomed.
I set him on the hutch, promise to keep tarnish at bay,
promise to never abandon him in that corner dungeon.
I adapt to his daily shine and appeal.
He knows nothing of cell phones or computers.
We bond. In quietude, he reflects sun and candle glow,
mirrors our arrivals and departures,
contemplates baby steps of time.
Linda Aschbrenner reads, writes, and dreams from a Marshfield marsh. She published 100 issues of the poetry journal Free Verse in addition to 17 chapbooks for fellow poets. Her writing has appeared in Verse Wisconsin, Peninsula Pulse, Yankee, Cats Magazine, and California Quarterly.