by Ed Bennett

The fullness of your breast
was new to me
as the shocking blondness,
the occasional line.

You wear these middle years well
like a comfortable hat
that still draws the eye,
and you laugh now
more roundly and open
from some newer wisdom
rather than the old insecurity.

My presbyopia is a blessing
in this waning sunlight
cocking my head to aim eyes
through the lower bifocal,
seeing you soften at the edges
where time blends with history
and you are nineteen years old,
a love of singular perfection

as you are now
in a comfortable hat
of many sizes
and an age defiant
of a structured time.


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