Her Life as a Pitcher

A silver water pitcher
gifted for our wedding
forty-five years of age
reflected young smiles
with clear—bright futures
but over our long years
it bears an aging patina
ineffaceable rusts of time
rather than reflecting on us
it absorbs all our colors

inscribing our happenings
into inevitable shadows
etching dark azure blues
mingling shades of violet
chocolate burns of smudge
like children’s tan faces
screaming in joy or pain
flutes flowing in dark rose
furrows burnish with grey
blotches of tough trials
spatter years of peace

and she is like this pitcher
pouring her devoted soul
upon her expanding family
leaving an empty hollow
I work hard to replenish
as I gaze at her perfection
of selfless love and beauty
I adore her sacred finish more
yes—we both tarnish in age
but our sheen ripens together