Morning Rituals

Every morning, at seven, the sound fills the air,

water splashes down gently, droplets linger with care.

My neighbor's routine, a rhythm, a dance,

as he nurtures his plants, lost deep in his trance.

The sunlight peeks through the curtains so thin,

illuminating his hands, the soil, and the grin.

I watch from my window, caught in this spell,

each splash a reminder of stories to tell.

As he moves with a purpose, the world feels aligned,

like the clock ticking softly, weaving threads in my mind.

And I’m left with a question, as I sip my own tea—

is the morning's reflection a glimpse of what could be?