Sunday Morning

Behold the cup.
Steam rises from it like a small offering.

Bitter and dark,
the ordinary sacrament of waking.

No miracle here.
Only leaves steeped in water
and the quiet patience of the kettle.

The book lies open on the table.
Once I thought its pages breathed.
Once I believed a voice waited there
for anyone who listened carefully enough.

Now the room is still.

Outside the sun hesitates
behind a pale cloud,
as if unsure whether to rise.

The wind does not move.

No dove descends.
No angel troubles the air.

Only the refrigerator hums
its dull mechanical psalm
while the spoon circles the cup.

I drink.

The taste is sharp enough
to wake the body.

But the veil does not tear.

The words on the page remain words.

Still something stirs.
Not revelation.

Only the old questions
returning quietly.

Perhaps faith was always this.
A habit of speaking
into silence.

And yet the silence answers nothing.

The stone remains in place.
The garden is empty.

Sunday morning continues,
coffee cooling beside the book,

while somewhere inside the mind
a small doubt wakes

and refuses
to sleep again.