WHEN MORNING MEETS GOD.

The world exhales,
in the hush before light breaks,
not empty, but full,
of everything holy.

Mist kisses the grass,
each blade bowed like it's praying,
while trees stand in still reverence,
their leaves trembling with awe,
as the sun begins to bleed,
through the branches,
soft gold on bark and breath.

A single bird lifts a note,
and then another answers,
not in noise, but in praise,
A song older than scripture,
woven from wing and wonder.

I walk barefoot in this moment,
the earth cool and honest beneath me,
It feels like stepping into Eden,
before the ache,
before the noise,
when God still strolled in the garden,
with no need for grand entrances.

I don't speak,
I don't need to,
Even silence is a prayer here.

The air is thick with presence,
not heavy,
but full.
Like God is sitting besides me,
in the sway of a branch,
in the breath of a breeze,
in the hush of being seen and known,
and loved,
without asking.

And I,
fragile and freckled with doubt,
belong here.
In this symphony of stillness,
this cathedral of creation,
I remember,
I was never lost.
Just waiting,
for morning,
to find me.