Intimations of mortality are everywhere. The only antidote is to appreciate the everyday, the commonplace, the unexpected joyous moment. If you happen to be 60+ and you like poetry, the following poem will appeal.
“Refusing at Fifty-Two to Write Sonnets”
by Thomas Lynch
It came to him that he could nearly count
How many Octobers he had left to him
In increments of ten or, say, eleven
Thus: sixty-three, seventy-four, eighty-five.
He couldn’t see himself at ninety-six-
Humanity’s advances notwithstanding
In health-care, self-help, or new-age
What with his habits and family history,
The end, he thought, is nearer than you
The future, thus confined to its
The present moment opens like a gift:
The balding month, the grey week, the blue
The hour’s routine, the minute’s passing
All seem like godsends now. And what to
make of this?
At the end the word that comes to him is