I used to hurry everywhere, and leaped over the running creeks.

There wasn’t time enough for all the wonderful things I could think of to do in a single day.  

Patience comes to the bones

before it takes roots in the heart as another good idea.

I say this as I stand in the woods and study the patterns of the moon shadows,

or stroll down into the waters that now, late summer, have also caught the fever,

and hardly move from one eternity to another.

Mary Oliver, Patience