The hush before the dawn is soft and slow,
Like dewdrops hanging where the lilies grow.
The sky blinks open with a pastel yawn,
And stretches sunlight gently on the lawn.

A kettle hums its mellow morning tune,
While golden rays slide through a sleepy room.
Curtains flutter with a quiet grace,
A sleepy smile warms my rested face.

The birds rehearse their gentle, airy notes,
While sunlight paints gold edges on my coat.
The clock ticks slow, like it, too, understands—
This day has gifted time with open hands.

The coffee brews its earthy, tender scent,
Through open windows, breeze is softly sent.
Slippers shuffle on the wooden floor,
A creaky whisper from the cupboard door.

No rush, no race, no morning fuss to bear,
Just warmth and silence dancing in the air.
No school bells ring, no traffic’s grumbling tone,
Just pages turning, and a world my own.

Sunday morning is a slow morning, you see—
A canvas brushed in gentle reverie.
Where moments stretch like shadows on the wall,
And peace comes not in pieces—but in all.

So here I sit, with pen and page and light,
Wrapped in the echoes of a world made right.
The morning breathes, alive in every part

.    .    .