Ode to an Iron Pan

When my son, now grown, was a baby
I bought a small iron pan from a discount store.
Not many things from that time do I still have.
Too much darkness and chaos in the years since
have destroyed nearly everything.
This iron pan I still have.
It is precious to me.

Years have tempered it
Obsidian black
moon-like
scrying glass
handle like a needles head.
I gaze into it like a mirror
a pool of dark water
with dark metallic waves spreading out
from the center
as if the fairies had dropped a tiny rock into the middle
and turned the surface to liquid
which then froze.