Wayne Orr

Your laughter arcs—a comet’s trail,
bright against the ordinary.
In your gaze, the world grows still,
a hymn where doubt cannot linger.

Morning’s coffee, twilight’s walk,
your voice the thread that braids the hours.
You turn the mundane into grace—
a quiet storm of golden power.

Not just for grand or borrowed joys,
but how you steady breath by breath:
the anchor when the tempests rise,
the hearth that mends what time has stressed.

So take this verse, imperfect, small—
a mirror to the light you cast.
With you, life blooms relentless, wild,
and every “now” outshines the past.