“The woman who has my heart”

She moves through morning light, a laugh afloat,  
A gentle hand that guards what words may fail,  
The hush of tea, the closing of her coat,  
A storm made still, a sail in summer’s gale.  

She is the quiet compass of my days—  
The whispered warmth beneath November skies,  
A patient glow that never fades or strays,  
A refuge found when hope in darkness lies.  

The stories crease her brow, both fierce and kind;  
Her eyes—two lanterns, vast behind the years—  
She trusts the gardens I have yet to find,  
And sows her faith to ease my secret fears.  

The world may call with glitter, song, and art—  
But none compare: she is the keeper of my heart.

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