The Color of Swans               

by Melinda Coppola


A prism is lifted to the sun. Imagine
a million nuances of color and shine,
fractal languages of symmetry
resting perfectly
between breaths or heartbeats.

The artist knows the power of spaces,
without which there would be no means
to shape the eye’s longing.
Musician has this same knowing,
gleaned through the eardrum’s
oscillations:  there is no song
without pauses
between notes.

Someone in your diaspora of friends
will die tonight, and in the moments
between last exhale
and the doctor’s legal declaration,
a poem is written on the window
in frost.  It lingers
only as long as three pairs of eyes can see it,
and if the heart that goes
with one pair can hear it,
a song will be born,
and if the soul that goes
with one pair can see it,
there will be a rendering
in charcoal, or paint, or crayon.

This is how life continues;
The poetry between things
must draw the attention
of some realized aspect of God,
like you, or you,
and your near-desperate desire
to interpret the miracle
becomes the language, the love, the soil
from which
something else can be born.


* * * * *

Melinda Coppola writes from a messy desk in small town Massachusetts, where her four cats often monitor her progress. She delights in mothering her complicated, enchanting daughter who defies easy description. Melinda’s work has appeared in many fine books and publications, most recently One Art, Third Wednesday, and Anti-Heroin Chic.