Within this tree where weeks will slur
I watch the world begin to blur
and wonder what the rushing's for:
whose hurried feet when engines roar,
how hasty strained that human life,
why squealing wheels streak to strife.

If only they would take it slow
delighting while they come and go
to meet each moment mindfully
enduring sight inclined to see
magnificence beyond commute
profundities above pursuit.

I once heard Sloth's a deadly sin,
but show me virtues in that din,
the morals in their urgency,
those merits in velocity.
A sluggish chump, I'll take all day
to settle what I meant to say.

My irony: I'll often pray
give thanks that I was born this way
alike the turtle, slug, and snail
ordained for humbler pacing, scale
to make a month of any hour,
serenity our staying power.