This – another little gem by Wendell Berry – seems like a good poem for my 58th new year’s day.
The question before me, now that I
am old, is not how to be dead,
which I know from enough practice,
but how to be alive, as these worn
hills still tell, and some paintings
by Paul Cézanne, and this mere
singing wren, who thinks he’s alive
forever, this instant, and may be.
– Wendell Berry, This Day: Collected and New Sabbath Poems, 2001 (VI)