A mature woman—
Ah, there’s the thing.
She stands out against
those immature little young things,
with their hot little bottoms,
ever liable to new distractions
such as young mens’ come-hither glances.
when the tea is just right,
when the cake dough no longer
adheres to the toothpick,
how to make perfect sweet potato pancakes—
and they don’t.
As alert as a lighthouse,
she knows what her old man needs
before he even thinks to mention it,
and, in her offhanded quiet way,
ensures that he has it,
whilst those young things are still
sorting out wife rights from husband rights,
never firmly sure of anything—because
they haven’t lived long enough.
Thank you, God,
for my mature woman.
In gratitude unbounded,
I love her with all
the life that’s left in me.