there is some life somewhere living itself without me.

there is some life somewhere living itself without me.
it is the one
in which my eleven year old son has never said you make me
want to kill myself.
it is the one
in which i always let stillness,
silence and spaciousness move, speak and think me.
it is the one
in which my lover knows  when we are done
with the lemon dill chicken, his doing the dishes means
thank you.
it is the one
in which he holds me in just this way
whether or not the children are around,
in order for me to meet
the next week a whole woman, not a woman of holes.
it is the one
in which i wake up, rise from bed with grace
and quiet mind toward sleeping children,
warm water, blue bowls of milk.
it is the one
beneath all this, already seeded, buried too deep in soil
to find light, or,
it is the one
sprouted, but i’ve forgotten where i planted it,
and the weeds have grown up so high i’m lost, parting leaves,
cutting my arms on blades of green, looking, looking.