A speaker goes out into the woods and simply stays. The poem is only four short lines, but it holds a whole afternoon of stillness. What stands out is the odd comparison: the speaker stays "longer than ice" and "longer than hurt." Ice melts eventually, and hurt is supposed to fade, yet here the speaker outlasts both, as if lingering in one spot has become its own kind of endurance.
The last line, "not able to stir all afternoon," makes the stillness feel less like a choice and more like a spell. The speaker may be soothed by the quiet, or weighed down by something painful, and the poem doesn't say which. Judging by the pairing of ice and hurt, the two may be linked: both are frozen things that slowly give way.
The mood is hushed, patient and a little heavy. The title, "Slowing down," fits. Reading it feels like time stretching out, with the woods holding the speaker in place.