Ode to My Mug
A mug of black, so bold and deep,
Where morning shadows love to steep.
Its coat is night, its soul is strong,
It holds my coffee, dark and long.
But oh! the handle — broad with grace,
A full-hand hug, a perfect place.
Four fingers wrap, no strain, no slip,
A sturdy, steaming, heartfelt grip.
Each morning starts with sacred rite,
That brave black brew, my spark, my light.
It fires my limbs, it clears my head,
And wakes the soul from sleepy dread.
No dainty cup with fragile air,
This mug was made for hands that care.
Through dawns and yawns, it stands in pride—
My faithful mug, my joy, my guide.