To worship idleness in days like these
must be accounted sin. To contemplate
in silent awe and longingly these trees
this path leaf-strewn and wet, roses late
blooming after frost —panoply of things
I may not stop for, may not understand.
Count wasted time this lingering which brings
content not cash. It isn’t what I planned
(I must read this book)
in some mysterious way,
that you are absorbing the wisdom
contained in all the books through your skin,
without even opening them.