Morning Routine

A Poem

Morning Routine

In the hushed dawn,

before a word escapes my lips,

I seek my sanctuary by the eastern light.

Golden fingers trace my skin as I sip

tart lemon water that jolts my senses awake.

The trickling song of water over stones

mingles with the quiet hum of the waking world.

A simple cross, a silent anchor on the wall.

I close my eyes, inhale deeply,

counting to eight, a steady rhythm within.

Release. Exhale slowly, letting go.

Each breath a surrender

to the coming day.

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