A Hopeless Woman

I am looking for a hopeless woman.

Not the kind you're thinking of,

drinking alone at the dive bar, dissolving

into dramas on the mid-day screen.

No–I want a woman who has

given up those distractions,

who has surrendered the search for

escape, betterment, or balm.

I am looking for a hopeless woman.

A woman who, in the morning, before her coffee,

steps outside with her aging dog, and sits

where it is damp.

A woman who watches for what the hawk will do

and helps a worm find the garden,

even when the city's machines scream

it's time, it's time, let's go.

I am looking for a hopeless woman.

A woman who is not trying

to get there fast, who finds the animal rhythms

of her own body and

chooses them,

instead.

I am looking for a hopeless woman.

A woman who's stopped checking

her phone; who knows that those sentences, soldiering on,

are waiting to

go home,

for presence to retake

the throne.

I am looking for a hopeless woman.

A woman who hears the children crying, sees their

mothers driven away by sirens of redwhiteblue;

who watches the news not so she can stay informed,

but so she remembers why she is kind.

I am looking for a hopeless woman.

A woman who wonders--and, now, truly wants to know

what lives behind her life; a woman who,

between fits of courage, considers

what would remain, if she

let go of every last branch--

the writing, the job,

the hand.

I am looking for a hopeless woman.

A woman who knows that if

she were not this,

she would be something else

and that would be

good too.

I am looking for a hopeless woman.

A woman who, when her ankle twists,

or when the virus returns, does not wait

for things to get better.

I want a woman who, at her "worst," asks,

Who am I now?

There is a woman who walks along the road

where I live. I only ever see her alone, gazing

at the trees, houses, the drivers speeding home.

She is smiling, but it is not contentment I see in her face.

She is not satisfied with what she's made

of her day, nor pleased by the turn in weather.

She is not happy about her life.

She looks astonished. Like she is visiting here

for the first time.

When I pass her, I slow down, as I would for a buck

or blue heron. I want to stop my car, ask,

Can I come too?

Now, when I walk with my shepherd, sniffing

every bush, imagining ourselves children

in every strange doorway,

I wonder if someone is seeing me too;

if, like an early Spring on this

February morning, my hopeless soul

shines through.