on the stove,
mom and dad's
coffeepot; not used,
but always there.
On the windowsill
a clear blue vase
empty, unflowered
always there.
On the bookcase
a brown music box
from a friend of forty years
rarely played.
Things are just things
unless touched by
someone dear.
(this is an older work which I have revised.)
The photo of this simple blue vase evokes your poem perfectly.
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