There's been a lot of talk lately
about how little
and how much more
we ache for a place with a slower pace.

The acceleration of days 
seems to dwindle imagination.

Counting months, days and minutes
with melancholy fury
does none justice to the space of infinite hue.

We're not running out if we turn and face in-
the truth in our bodies do have beginning and end
but there's a scent carried in the wind
currents of everlasting tides

we enter the endless ebb and flow
for that's all that time really ever is.