Kathryn A. Kopple
As I tip the jar of molasses and wait
I think of you in far off Costa Rica.
How eager you were to see a sloth
in the jungle. Strange that one
so sluggish could be so elusive.
If it were not for the molasses
I’m not sure I could quell the world
wild with agitation long enough
to ponder the ways of a treacle
limbed mammal that dwells
thirty or more years in the same tree,
suspended upside down. Such
eloquence, you said, in all
that slowness, to be alive
and not to sprint to the finish.
Credits: This poem first appeared in the Fall 2012 issue of The Threepenny Review.