Coffee Stains on the Windowsill (Poem)

Here, have a beer and read a a poem I wrote for my wife.

(Happy Valentine's Day)

---

Eery morning

before the world decides what it needs from you,

you take your place on the couch.

Right cushion, nestled in the kindness of your favorite blanket

like it’s reserved in the quiet cathedral of your peace.

Bible open in your lap,

spine softened from loyalty,

your journal waits beside you.

Pages breathing,

ready to feel the constellations of your thoughts.

And there

as certain as sunrise

your mug finds the windowsill.

You never notice the rings it leaves behind.

But I do.

Faint halos, overlapping

little eclipses of mornings past.

Proof that you were here,

thinking in circles again,

wandering your gentle labyrinths

until meaning blooms.

You move through your mind

the way steam lifts from your mug.

Slow, spiraled,

never rushed,

always warm.

You return to stillness the way hands return to prayer.

You return to your sacred place the way a ceramist creates art.

Thoughts turning over,

being polished,

finding new light in familiar curves.

Those rings on the sill

are your mark on the world.

Not mess. Memory.

Marks left behind with quiet intention.

They map your rhythms:

the way you begin softly,

the way you linger,

the way you make ordinary mornings

feel hand-stitched and sacred.

The way that you love me.

One day, we’ll paint the house,

replace the windows,

sand away the evidence of time.

But I hope we don’t.

Because I love the way

your presence stains the edges of things.

The way your love creates faint halos,

overlapping little eclipses,

on my heart.

How your rituals leave warmth behind,

how your mind loops with wonder,

how your life touches mine

in perfect, imperfect rings.

So tomorrow morning,

set your coffee there again.

Leave another circle.

I’ll keep loving you

inside every one.