Morning Rituals

The neighbor’s lawnmower starts with a roar,

at seven sharp, it rumbles once more.

Coffee brews slowly, the scent fills the air,

as I slip into routine, unaware.

A sputter, a pause, then that tiresome song,

glancing at the clock, wondering how long.

Every morning a rhythm, a choreographed dance,

in this little world, caught in its trance.

How strange it feels, that something so loud

can weave through my morning, make silence feel proud.

Each blade of grass whispers beneath its fierce bite,

marking time with a roar, filling morning with light.