Sofia in the Garden

I hide myself in the shadows
like a criminal. If you see me

watching, time will intrude
and the moment go.

I watch you eat raspberries and peas, move
to nasturtiums then honeysuckle,

moving from food for people
to forage for bumblebees and hummingbirds.

I watch you squat and stare at the soil. I stop
weeding and imagine you

wet with the gloss of birth,
with grey hair among children. Time swings

back and forth. I watch you stare at the worm—
how the brown moves into pink, how it

contracts and steals into its small self,
its five-chambered heart slowing down,

stealthily tunneling into the dirt while you watch—
you watch it go.