Why I don't write greeting cards
Today's my birthday, I turn and say
to the young man sitting to my side.
He looks at me in some surprise;
words unspoken, speak:
Seriously, at your age you continue to trace
the number of years you've stayed alive?
And I question myself, what it means
to celebrate a day that's just a date
which measures only the distance
from birth to now.
When the future annum holds fewer dreams,
less to be achieved,
wouldn't it now make greater sense
to count how much time remains instead?