Fifty-Five

Fifty-five refuses to be wroth.
Instead of cursing fortune, she sings songs,
Freed by savoring her right to choose
To ride the restless fury of her wrongs,
Yet whipped by bitter riptides into froth.

For she will be a dancer, win or lose,
Intent on wearing well the well-worn cloth,
Vivid in the grace of every move,
Even less the love for which she longs.