Sun filters through blinds,
Coffee steam rises,
Day begins with intention
Note: Need to revise second stanza and add more imagery about the morning light.
The ritual begins before thought,
hands finding familiar shapes
in half-darkness,
muscle memory of comfort.
Draft thoughts: Maybe explore the contrast between the automatic movements and the conscious intention to start fresh each day? The way morning light transforms everything ordinary into something sacred?
Read slowly, with pauses between stanzas, like morning itself awakening