Of Birds and Blueberries

Writing can be therapeutic, but it’s work nonetheless.  Sending woven words out into the world to be judged is a practice in growing thicker skin. For every published piece there are dozens of rejections.  Though I’ve grown quite used to it, there are times it still sends me into mild despair. I’ve been going through a bit of that, which is why the message that came through  last week was an especially wonderful gift. The call came from South Carolina, so I assumed spam and let it go to voicemail. I’m glad I didn’t just block the caller and delete, because I’d have missed the news that one of my poems had been judged the winner of  The Heart Poetry Award 2025 through Nostalgia Press! I’ll take that as a sign to keep at it. Thanks, universe!
The poem, written in part to the ghost of my dear departed father:

Rinsing Blueberries

At the prep sink, I ask the spigot for cool,
but settle for tepid, sprouting shy admiration
for the small colander, so gracious with wee berry bodies.
The faucet’s rain sends tendrils of musky,
soon-summer scents spiraling upwards
filling my nostrils with a certain joy.
Before I can call up gratitude
for these organic orbs in my kitchen, I’m tumbling
back through decades—two, four, five—
landing soundlessly on my back
in what might be late-July grass.

You don’t look up as your stiff hands pull at the nets
guarding bushes heavy with berries,
some green, others periwinkle, maroon, deep navy.
I am invisible, ghosted in from another time.
I wouldn’t mind sharing with the birds,
you used to say, if they’d take just a few!
Once I asked why you didn’t leave
a bush outside the netting so they could feast
without damaging the whole crop.
I don’t recall the words you spoke,
but your eyes were quick to find mine,
and sharp‑—broadcasting scorn.

Back in the kitchen, I pick through the fruitlets—
plucking out the mushies, the under-ripes,
several perfect ones, too.
Cupping my dusky pearls in one hand,
I venture onto the deck,
place them gently on the rims
of my raised planters.

Come, birds, these are for you.

–Melinda Coppola

The Judge: Grey Held

The print copy and e-book will be out end of year, but the Editor made the announcement and gave me permission to share the poem here.

Photo by Nica Cn on Unsplash