Composing a Poem with Cold Fingers

My window seems to
welcome the draft,
while my fingers,
in their frozen state,
try to type, clattering this little ditty
about nothing special,
but loving the warmth
of my hot cocoa,
its fragrance, so eloquently rising
from this black 'n white ceramic cup
adorned with stenciled words
which, in their poetic style,
offer both demands and salutations:

"Poe Me A Cup."