Everyday Hope

     Isn’t it hope that sends us out from between the covers to reckon with the long uncut grass and lumps of clay?
     Isn’t it hope that keeps us vacuuming the guest room, tidying up the bathroom, standing at the kitchen window watching the driveway?
     Isn’t it everyday hope that takes a moment to plug in the block heater at the freeze of winter?
     Isn’t it everyday hope that hangs up pictures, keeps lists on the fridge door and sits down to write a letter to the editor?
     Isn’t it hope that builds a bin for compost and every spring tries for tomatoes straight from seed?
     Isn’t it hope that packs a lunch and refuses the daily broadcast of fear without denying all the shit we’re in?
     Isn’t it everyday hope that prepares the easel, moistens and kneads lumps of clay, writes a song with a maze of lines that harmonize?
     Isn’t it morning hope that slides open the patio doors to let in the bird song despite the gravel trucks rumbling by?
     Isn’t it hope that picks up litter on the walk to work, takes the stairs beside the escalators, sends off a money-gram on the first of every month, risks an appointment, gives itself a second chance, plays double-or-nothing, but not every time?
     Isn’t it everyday hope that sits in a lake of memories watching the rabbits run and play between the upright stones and crosses?
     Isn’t it hope that dissolves the edges of our individuality, remembers we are vessels made from the same clay?
     Isn’t it hope that finally wakes us to our own indulgence, negligence, violence, now so obviously reflected back to us, asks forgiveness and summons the feminine Spirit of wisdom and benign power for help?
     Isn’t it everyday hope that sends us to bed, sets the alarm, flicks off the light?