I look for it in the honeyed plumpness
of the golden comforter,
the cold morning bathroom tiles,
the rain of water warm then cool
      that bathes my senses awake.

I look for it
in the fire and fragrance
of my son’s hair
as we begin our morning struggle,
in the earthy tang of coffee
and the soft cork of the bulletin board
      littered with reminders.

I look for it
in the burgundy sofa
that sighs with my weight as I listen
for the rumble of the yellow school bus,
and later
in the newspaper-reading faces on the train,
the conductor’s song of stops,
the garlic-scented accents of students
their struggle twisting their way into English
      as I twist my way in and out of the day.

And when it comes, it comes
not in days away, not in evenings out.
But as the day ebbs
with dishes stacked in the sink,
clothes to be washed, lists to be made
it calls me softly into my son’s room
invites me to sit at the edge of his bed
and stroke his soft curls.
The rhythms
of his breath the ticking clock
my breath weld the scene
and hold us
    in an eggshell of space.

This poem first appeared on HighlandParkPoetry.org.
It also won 3rd Place in the 2010 Poetry Challenge.
Used here with the author’s permisison.