If only I could take a measure
Of my movement through the trees
I would feel a pulse of pleasure
From my fingers to my knees.
Much like finding hidden treasure
To know how slowly I proceed,
To interrupt my timeless leisure
To ponder on this gnawing need.
But movement means I’d have to change;
No longer would I be a slowth
Who slowly moves across her range
Much slower than her toe nail growth.
Slowthful ways are in my keeping,
Stillness still my constant aim,
Slower than the slowest creeping,
The slowest slowth still in the game.
And lowly, too, though slow to say,
Four-fingered member of my race,
No need for movement or display,
No need to know my treacle pace.