Especially
      in the late afternoon
            when my nieces

close their eyes
      and bend
            their heads

to inhale
      the bubbles that rise
            from the tall glasses

of milk,
      licking the juice
            off their lips

that open
      on the softened
            black and white cookies

that have been
      dipped
            into the glass

and then dipped
      again,
            sopping with cream,

I like to think
      about stopping
            the passage of time—

not a bird
      not a branch
            in bloom,

not an insect
      stirring
            in the still grass and ferns.