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.
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