So I thought I might try writing a poem a day, which after today seems a little more daunting than it did yesterday. I did however get something written for today… enjoy.
The Favorite Mug
I’ve watched him for years—
the steady hand,
furrowed brow,
and tired smile
at the end of a long day
when the world outside the door
has quieted down,
and the room is ours.
We meet each morning,
a ritual of warmth,
the heat of hope rising with each sip.
He doesn’t speak much,
but his fingers,
calloused from decades of paperwork,
wrap around me with reverence,
like an old friend who has seen
too many years to count
and still holds on tight.
I’m there for the early mornings
when he shuffles into the office
before the children’s voices roar through the halls
before the phones start ringing
with problems for him to fix.
I see the lines on his face deepening,
the wear of time that can’t be erased,
not even by a warm cup.
But still, he carries on.
I’ve seen it—
the moments when a young person
knocks on his door,
nervous and wide-eyed.
He listens and encourages like it’s water
pouring from an endless well.
I see his eyes light up,
the cracks in his heart
mended with the smallest of victories.
I don’t mind my slow existence.
I’m just the cup—
faithful,
patient,
a silent witness to the years.
But in these moments,
I’m part of the story.
I hold the warmth
that helps him carry on,
the steady rhythm of his work
stretched across decades.
He leans back,
a tired sigh escaping.
I can feel
the quiet pride
and love for the job
that still lingers,
even on tough days.
For more than 25 years,
he’s guided them,
shaped them,
and taught them—
For a decade,
I’ve been his silent companion,
witness to the quiet battles,
the triumphs,
the exhaustion,
and the joy of a life spent
in service to something greater.
I’ll be here tomorrow
and the next
because no matter how he’s aged
under the weight of it all,
he still holds me close,
and still,
I warm his hands
when the world demands too much.