Analysis of Speed

This is the thing:
Like a flower opening in fast forward,
It came too quickly.
A month of remuneration.

"Balance," my mother always said.
Between bodies and minds,
Blood and souls,
Dancing and respite.

But never a word about speed.
Here it is now,
A fortnight after Enchanted April,
With nothing more to gain but time:

Loose, disparate and slow.
Anything but patient.