A Lack Of Time Poem by Doris Cornago

A child delights us in that he could get caught up in the moment. Take a baby who has discovered his fingers. He would look at each connected piece, seeking the difference of each by form, holding his hand up to fully appreciate the form of each finger, tasting one by one to know the distinction. An adult is less appreciative and perhaps even laugh at my suggestion to reflect on the fingers, in adoration of the creation of something extremely distinctive. This is just an illustration of what's important is disregarded because we are used to having them.