A Garden Poem

This afternoon I lay
down in clover
washed by the sun
pillows of green light.

The Spider Wort blooms,
purple flowers wrapped
too in green.
Robins genuflect in the dirt,
their cowled heads bowed
in supplication.

Stay. Stay in the poem, a professor
once told me. And I feel myself
trying to leave this moment,
to leave the Iris to fall on its own
to the oak who's seeds fall
like a thick, rain.

All you get is this one moment
the Robin reminds me,
a worm blooming from its beak.
But I want to float away
like bubbles from a plastic wand
rainbow hued circles floating
beyond the fence posts 
into the sky above.