Fifty-Seven

Fifty-seven finds no field of glory.
In her life fields have tended towards concrete.
For her, each day is mostly everyday,
Taken up with answering her mail.
Yet every moment sings with unsung passion.

So does the soul accomplish its sole mission:
Exactly being what, beyond the veil,
Vast field of glory on which none might gaze,
Eludes the heart with longing, frail and sweet,
Need that need not tell a hero's story.