Ode to the Mug

Ode to the Mug

Oh, Mug

You hug my morning tea,

Making sure he stays at

Just the right temperature.

Your rounded edges

Fit the contours of my

Palms perfectly, as I

Wrap them around you,

Feeling your warmth

On a frigid, snowy day.

A mug, so simple in design,

Yet it brings me happiness

That has no end. Seeing

Your magnificent body,

I can’t help but wonder

As to why I’m this fortunate.

This lucky to fill you with

Darjeeling, honey, and ice.

You make my mornings bearable,

My afternoons less tiring, and

My nights more rejuvenating.

Your brim, lipped and lined in

Ruby red paint, sparks memories

Of kisses, long and bittersweet,

As I sip. The exquisite flora’s creator,

A brush, gracefully glided along your

Skin, introducing orange to violet,

 scarlet to olive,

Sunshine to moonlight.

You bravely endure the

Merciless dishwasher for me,

To serve me, to continue

To hold my liquid energy.

And, once, when I dropped you,

Chipping a piece of white porcelain

From your fair, radiant shell,

Not a word of distain was thrown from

Your mouth, not a resentful stare was

Shot from your eyes.

Oh, mug, your

Glorious finger hold.

It sprouts from high on your build,

And expertly dances its way lower,

Twisting, and wrapping,

Dipping and rising.

At the end of this crimson

Wave, there is a ceramic flower

Painted in creamy yellow and powdery white

More elegant and full than any

Other to grace my gaze.

Oh, Mug.

Your days are endless,

Your beauty, boundless,

Your enduring, relentless.

Oh, Mug.

I’ll leave you here for now,

With the remnants of black tea

Staining your belly.

But when I come back,

The sun will be tired, as will I;

I’ll rinse you out, and restore

You to your throne,

Close the cabinet door,

And drift off into paradise.