The sprinkler outside
spins itself wildly,
its tick erratic,
heart in a rush.
My hands
at the white paper
still smell of green
onions from the garden.
Things don’t want to finish
themselves on time,
and I let them go.
At the back of the house
my husband and my daughter
are eating cold
slices of melon.
Everything easy
I’ve been slow to learn.
By Sharon Weightman Hoffmann
Sharon Weightman Hoffmann is a writer based in Atlantic Beach, Florida. Publications include The New York Quarterly, Beloit Poetry Journal, Showcase, Banyan Review, Letters, Poetica, Alice Walker: Critical Perspectives (Harvard University Press), and Isle of Flowers (Anhinga Press). Previous awards include fellowships from Florida’s Division of Cultural Affairs and Atlantic Center for the Arts, and two Pushcart nominations.