"If there's a book you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it." -Toni Morrison

Colleen Wells writes poetry and creative nonfiction. She’s a recipient of an Indiana Society of Professional Journalists Award and a runner-up for the Robert Frost Poetry Award. Colleen is the author of Dinner with Doppelgangers - A True Story of Madness and Recovery, and the poetry chapbook Animal Magnetism, published by Finishing Line Press in 2022.

Welcome to the Poets Weave. I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey. Colleen, what poems have you brought for us today?

“Seedlings”

She tucked the seeds into the cool dirt,
covering them like a secret.
Later she watered them, feeling hopeful.

She watched over them each day, still hoping.
When she thought she could wait no more,
tiny shoots pushed from the dirt,
new and bright green like obvious metaphors.

They grew, reaching toward the sun
until they flowered.
She praised them, and rejoiced.

She did her best to keep them from drying out,
or choked by weeds.
She hoped no pests could destroy them,
and she watched for signs of disease.

They grew tall and full of color, the brightest red,
and richest purple she had ever seen.
She celebrated like a pep band trumpet,
bleating proud.

And when they began to wither, and brown,
scattering their leaves in the wind.
She could do nothing more for them,
but wait, and wish for their return.

That’s all she could do.

“Second-hand Smoke”

Mama Cardinal, your nest tucked in the tree,
poking against our porch like a big ole’ belly in a too-tight shirt,
is woven so perfect.
It’s as finely done as the crown on Jesus’ head.

You’ve been fussing over your two blue eggs
speckled with brown spots, little potato eyes.
Mama Cardinal,
you are nature
and, you are nurture.

It’s so smart the way you wove your nest right here,
where it’s shielded
from rain
and hawks.

Daddy Cardinal got on board today, Mama,
fed you a fat worm,
so you didn’t have to worry and wonder
about whether to leave em’ or feed em’.

Mama Cardinal, warming your eggs way up high,
if I don’t quit sitting here watching
as I smoke beside you,
we both gonna’ die.

“The Hawk”

Serene, white-faced warrior, wise as an owl, but with a craftiness all its own.
In a neighbor’s yard, planted on the branch of an Oak tree, the hawk worked over
its lifeless prey, busy as a chicken scratching in the dirt for a bug.

We stopped walking, took it in. My husband was entranced with it all.
“It looks like he got a mole,” he said with satisfaction. He hates the moles in our yard;
we’ve argued more than once about his wish to eradicate them with lethal means.

Just then the giant bird grabbed up the flaccid rodent, clutched it in its talons, then swooped, black wings flapping like a magician waving his cape. He landed in another nearby tree,
to feast unfettered by us,
is my guess.

We took a few steps, admiring him again.
“I don’t really want to watch this.” I said.
My husband commented the hawk was about the same size as our Jack Russell.
“He can’t be that big,” I disagreed.
“Can’t you see Kramer up in the tree? At that far away, he’d look the same.”

I thought to myself, Maybe without his four legs, maybe just his head and chest would equal the size of the hawk. But I agreed with my husband.
I looked up at the killer who held me in its vacant amber eyes for a powerful split second.

“Pretty Bird. You are a pretty bird,” I said, unable to stop myself from saying it.

“Roadkill”

We are bearing down on the Sunshine State.
Quite a road trip from Indiana.
While the speed limit along I-95 is 70 mph,
most people are doing 80 to 90 mph.
The sides of the road are littered with trash,
blown tires and roadkill.
We cross a small body of water called Turtle Creek.
Before we even get to the mouth of the bridge,
I can see dead turtles strewn all over the road.
There are cracked armadillo shells too.
The shards are almost pretty to look at
like shells at the beach.
Soon afterward, I note a dead pit bull surrounded by vultures.
Rick slows down.
We exchange glances.
He looks especially sad,
lowering his voice so the boys can't hear.
He tells me the dogs eyes were gone.

"Angel Bee Funeral"

Shrouded in dust,
Stymied coal eyes,
Gold- and onyx-lined abdomen.
A decorated sentinel.
Wings draped behind its head
like the Christmas angels plucked from plastic totes in the attic.
Their lacy gowns littered with mouse droppings.
I hover over the bee with my broom.
Make a clean sweep.
Don't look in the dustpan.
It has been gone for some time.

You've been listening to the poems of Colleen Wells on the Poets Weave. I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey.