Coffee Mug

Coffee Mug



The aroma drifts from our kitchen
He’s making coffee again,
In his snow white robe, and bed-head
And legs a bit too thin.

He pours one for himself
And then pours one for me,
The creamer’s flavored hazelnut
French vanilla was last week.

The mug is overflowing
He spills some on his robe,
He sits it down beside me
And whispers “there you go.”

It is my favorite coffee mug
The one with the gold rimmed edge,
Two chubby baby bluebirds
Perched on a window ledge.

He never was affectionate
In the ‘normal’ sense,
He wasn’t one to shower me
With gold expensive gifts.

Yet every weekend morning
My coffee would be there,
Steaming in my blue bird mug
Made with extra care.

Years later as I sit here
The mug beside me still,
Those chubby little bluebirds
Still grace the windowsill.

Where once the flavored coffee
Displayed his deepest love,
Now it holds some paperclips
Pencils pens and such.

A testimony to the love
Long married couples share,
And the true meaning of existence
When someone really cares.

© Copyright 2005 Ravenwand, Rising Star! (UN: ravenwand at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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