“Why else but to forestall this hour“: These are the beginning words of a favored poem of mine. It was written by Adrienne Rich and deals with the recognition of mortality. I don’t know when she wrote the poem, but certainly she had some private inkling, some private vision, that her hour, the final hour, was just around the bend.
I have been grappling with the recognition, for some time, now, with my sense of mortal ending. The items in my to do basket are less grand, now. “I am too full of years to reason why,” and too weary.