Fifty-seven's not afraid of silence,
In which the self can take a well-earned breath.
For her there is no urgency to time,
There being an eternity till death.
Years are but the borders of
So does she find the doorway
to her presence,
Entrance to which needs no shibboleth,
Visiting an oft-neglected shrine.
Even as she walks her length and breadth,
Not moving, she beholds her radiance.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon