The poem
Wouldn't you say, Wouldn't you say: one day, With a little more time or a little more patience, one might Disentangle for separate, deliberate, slow delight One of the moment's hundred strands, unfray Beginnings from endings, this from that, survey Say a square inch of the ground one stands on, touch Part of oneself or a leaf or a sound (not clutch Or cuff or bruise but touch with finger-tip, ear- Tip, eyetip, creeping near yet not too near); Might take up life and lay it on one's palm And, encircling it in closeness, warmth and calm, Let it lie still, then stir smooth-softly, and Tendril by tendril unfold, there on one's hand ...
One might examine eternity's cross-section For a second, with slightly more patience, more time for reflection?