Everything is a Sign

Of all the offerings,
a thousand possible signs,

the Spirit Messengers
chose poop.

A pile of it,
excrement
of vague animal origins,

arranged in a circle
too perfect for random,
dead center
on my front step.

And I, lover of beauty,
faithful to poetry
and all that sings

cannot make sense
of the leavings;
what they might portend,
or my resistance
to them.

Perhaps
all the feathers,
rainbows and butterflies,
shiny coins
with significant dates
that could appear conspicuously
on my pillow
or in my left shoe,

all were busy
imparting comfort
and guidance
to other askers,

and I,
lover of beauty,
faithful to poetry
and all that sings,

could receive
my gifted shit
as attestation

that all things pass,
poems will come,
my country will turn over
and be again arable,

green things will rise,
hopeful,
from the roiling ground.

-Melinda Coppola