Refusing at Fifty-Two to Write Sonnets

  Thomas Lynch        

It came to him that he could nearly count
How many late Aprils 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 regimens -
What with his habits and family history,
The end he thought is nearer than you think.

The future, thereby bound to its contingencies,
The present moment opens like a gift:
The greening month, the golden 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.