The Shift

by Melinda Coppola


I stand in gratitude
to silence, and stillness,
and the making of art,
the art of making
a child,
a painting,
a stone sculpture,
a poem,
a home that hums with love.


Sitting, I cradle songs
in the circle my arms make
holding my soft belly,
the welcoming place
for all nourishment,
integration of me-the-she
who sings, and
me-the-she
who is sung.
I sit to honor
the power of my voice,
the way all the cells vibrate
with each shiny note.


I kneel for the scents—
ocean and forest,
wet grasses and
a warm bed after good sleep,
the spices that inspire
my soups and stews;
cumin, garlic, sweet
cinnamon and
turmeric,
and the smell of memory, too—
my infant daughter's downy hair,
my father's Old Spice.


I am in eternal bow
to the daily grace of dawn,
the shapeshifter Muses
that visit me frequently,
the bright star
that lights the planet by day,
and the cool pearl
that decorates the night skies.


I lay myself down
on the soft earth,
in daily prostration
before the
God
Goddess
many-named
and nameless
Universal Pulse
that gives life,
and death,
and makes everything possible
in between.


* * * * *

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.