Sunrise Symphony

Where am I?

Still half-asleep, I fumble,

My fingers searching for the snooze,

For the silence, for the peace.

But wait—what is this light?

Not harsh, not glaring,

But soft and slow,

Whispering its way through the cracks of the blinds.

Oh, the morning.

I slip from the sheets,

Bare feet pressing against cool wood,

Each step a quiet prayer for coffee.

Unfamiliar kitchen, but the same need—

That bitter warmth, that liquid gold

To stir me awake.

Mug in hand, I wander,

And then—

I see it.

The world is aglow.

Sunlight spills like liquid fire

Across the horizon,

Touching the edges of the sky

With fingers made of amber and gold.

How do you ever get used to this?

It dances on the waves,

A million diamonds scattered across the sea,

Each ripple catching the light,

Each shimmer a secret,

Told just to me.

No crowds here.

No throngs of voices raised in awe,

Just the steady pulse of the ocean

And the quiet sigh of the wind.

No people lined up with cameras,

No whispers of "Look at that."

Only me, barefoot and still,

Witnessing the world wake up.

How have I never seen this before?

This grand performance,

This unannounced orchestra of light

That begins each day without applause.

The sun climbs higher,

A gentle giant stretching across the sky,

Its arms reaching out to tickle the earth,

To paint the trees in gold,

To touch the water with molten grace.

I sip my coffee slowly,

The warmth spreading through me as the light spreads over the world.

The day is here,

And I am here to meet it.

No fanfare.

No crowd.

No stage or script.

Just me and the sun,

Sharing a moment.

This, I realize,

Is worship.

This, without a word spoken,

Is prayer.

No church walls needed,

No pews or pages or sermons.

Just this light,

This sunrise,

This sacred silence.

And I,

The only one awake to see it,

Feel small,

Yet held.

Feel lost,

Yet found.

The day begins,

And I begin with it.