Seventy-eight swims violently upstream,
Emerging, like a fish, where she was born,
Very near to death as well as dawn,
Equally at the borderline of dream,
Now stripped bare of the identity
That years put on, once more no more to be,
Yet in the shallows, where shadows dart and gleam.
Each singing moment finds an open seam,
Invading with its music worlds forlorn,
Granting with renewed simplicity
Heaven's gift to those of shelter shorn,
That would alone with beauty death redeem.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon