Unknowing: A Poem

Slow because there's much to miss,

too much to surpass, enough to leave behind.

So exceedingly slow that a smile is almost sacred -

a greeting of the kindred;

no surreptitious lie.

Slow because real rushing comes from slowness,

an approaching waterfall

dipping low to fall, breaking to

smooth over rocks, a fracture

changing them through an alchemy

of the slowest, even slower, ever slowing time.