Coffee with the Creator

The clock says 5:30,
but heaven is already brewing something.
I cradle a cup,
steam rising like incense,
a silent offering to the dawn.

Bare feet on rooftop tiles,
the city still sleeps,
but the sky stirs —
a gentle hush before the Hallelujah.

Light spills slow,
brushstrokes of gold on bougainvillea and breath,
as if God Himself is painting
and whispering,
"Good morning, child."

No noise. No striving.
Only coffee and the Creator,
the kind who waits for me
not in sermons or songs,
but in stillness and sunrays.

Here, I don't need to say much.
The sky says it all —
Mercies are new,
and grace has no end.