Hope springs eternal
but I couldn’t imagine how hope,
before it gets to that bubbling place,
forces itself through miles of dirt packed hard,
then around, over, under rocks,
willing itself not to dry up in the desert
or to merge with the sewer of a city street,
waiting for frozen prairie to thaw,
resisting the warm and mindless absorption
of mud, moss, sand, swamp
until it finds the small trembling
where, welcome or not, it gathers the last of its strength
and breaks through to the surface
the way a laboring woman, stinking,
exhausted, summons one last grunt and push
to force the baby into the world
where it takes its first, sharp breath.
I bow my head to the hard work of hope,
let it place its dull and heavy hand upon my neck,
submit to its dour blessing,
begin its thankless, necessary pilgrimage.
