Wincing at waste, write pocket-notes
on the innocent sides of used pages, save
long distance calls till Sunday, chase
the last slipping rice grain around your plate
and even hurry slowly, acting
always with trustful slowness within,
mourning even the loss of a friend
with that dignity in her spirit never
gone…you have no need but to move,
sleep to waking, insult to love
happening to happening
at the pace of a gradual smile, at the pace
of the hammer-stroke heart
that proceeds to the next
full beat, and then the next.
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