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

regiments-

What with his habits and family history,

The end, he thought, is nearer than you

think.

The future, thus confined to its

contingencies,

The present moment opens like a gift:

The balding month, the grey week, the blue

morning,

The hour’s routine, the minute’s passing

glance-

All seem like godsends now.  And what to

make of this?

At the end the word that comes to him is

Thanks.

Categories: observations