You Can Start Over

Just today, I declared myself
poet laureate of Joe Pye weed,
bee-bent clover and June’s
box turtles, a water-droplet-
sounding flock of shiny-black
cowbirds, the tiny assassin
at the center of a coneflower. 
Starting now, I will only write 
poems in hole-punched 
caterpillar code—the native
language of a weeping cherry, 
ever-lamenting the loss 
of winged things, poisoned 
by those who prize an illusion 
of perfection. As poet-in-
residence of this wild half-acre, 
I will only give readings to 
an audience of moonlit toads, 
swooping bats and tiger moths, 
pausing for interruptions from 
the barred owl, hooting in rhythm 
with katydids loud as thunderclaps.

Thank you for reading a small spectacle. This poem was inspired by Kortney Garrison, who just today declared herself as Summer’s Writer in Residence.

For more poems written in reverence of wild kin on a re-wilded half-acre, my self-published collection No One Ever Says is available in the Lulu bookstore. You can also find copies of my chapbook Every Note, a Lantern from Kelsay Books and Amazon.

The Meeting Place

Where a box turtle wandered 
into the rain garden, 

a coral-pink constellation
of wolf's milk & fairy inkcaps

already disappearing from 
this place where 

one Terrapene somehow 
finds another—

not just to mate 
or sow fruiting bodies, 

but to rest in the shade 
of a weeping cherry, 

saffron-splotched shells
touching as if to share stories 

of snails & log hollows, 
a memory of water. 

Thank you for reading a small spectacle. For more poems that take pause and give attention to our wild kin, my latest collection, No One Ever Says is available in the Lulu bookstore. You can find also find copies of my chapbook, Every Note, a Lantern from Kelsay Books and on Amazon.

This morning, I cleaned out one of the bluebird boxes, along with a second birdhouse recently vacated by a family of Carolina wrens. The birdhouse is actually a white-speckled, ceramic orb with a wren-sized hole, which meant I had to pull the nesting material out a little at a time. 

With each pull, spilled a story of place and its kinship with humans (and non-humans). As I cleared out a season of leaves, twigs, dried mud and moss, I remembered a poem I once shared here. If you're a longtime subscriber, you may remember it as well.

*
Tear Here

There are pieces of us
woven in 
the wrens nest—

a salt-and-pepper tangle 
threaded through 
poplar twigs, 

wads of moss
and leaf skeletons, 
white fur from the cat

and a strip of cellophane
with directions to
Tear Here.

Thank you for reading a small spectacle. For more poems that take pause and give reverence to our wild kin, my latest collection, No One Ever Says is available in the Lulu bookstore. You can find also find copies of my chapbook, Every Note, a Lantern from Kelsay Books and on Amazon.

The Kind of Mother I Might Be

I would carry you in my jaws, 

seal myself inside
a tall pitch pine
to better protect the nest,

let you clip on
	all one hundred of you
with tiny pincers 
to my armored back.

I would never leave the burrow,

leave you to fledge 
like a brown-headed cowbird
in the nest of another,

strand you on ice
to find a new mate,

choose the stronger of two cubs, 
raise only one.

Thank you for reading a small spectacle. Today’s poem comes from my self-published poetry collection, No One Ever Says.

No One Ever Says explores themes of trauma and grief, while bringing to light the silent and often solitary struggles women face surrounding chronic pain and illness, infertility, and a loss of motherhood.

In collaboration with my longtime friend and artist, Katy V. Meehan, this collection holds space for vulnerability, stillness and recovery, while drawing on a reverence for the natural world, its abundance and resilience.

Now, when I water the garden 
or fill a drinking glass,

I think about eels—slick & supple, 
slender finned bodies, 

olive green & tannic as 
the riverbeds they mourn. 

I think of eels moonlit & silver, 
glass & dark elver, 

yellow hunters feeding 
the forest floor,

laying down fat before 
migrating back to the sea

where they will spawn & die. 
I think of mussels, too,

the unseen cleaners 
that need eels & other fish 

to survive, their larvae 
hitching rides in gill slits. 

I think of dams breaking
the body of a river, 

the kin & connections
already gone & forgotten—

entire galaxies of glinting ribbons 
with tiny ruby hearts.

To be honest, I never really thought about eels. I knew about freshwater mussels and their ecological importance, but I never knew the two were connected until I read Beyond the Visible World by Katharine Beckett Winship, who is doing vital research and work in partnership with our Earth. Not only did her essay captivate my attention, but it also changed something in me (and inspired a poem).

*

Thank you for reading a small spectacle. My newest collection, No One Ever Says, is now available in the Lulu bookstore. Spanning the seasons, these poems hold space for vulnerability, stillness and recovery, while drawing on a reverence for the natural world, its abundance and resilience.

In a time of light and war

Spring offers the usual promise—
bud, brood and bloom, 

even when its petal confetti 
is buried in mud.

I want to welcome birdsong
and tender green things,

except, I can’t stop thinking about 
the photograph of a woman 

on a hill of ash and metal,
looking out at Tehran’s skyline, 

oily-black as the chador 
fluttering like a flag in wind,

her sneakers, bright as
newborn bluebells.

Beneath that same burning, 
two women praying

in a patch of morning glory, 
darkly lavender as wings 

on an azure butterfly.
Here, the sky is a cliché 

and smoky clouds are 
simply clouds … cottontail

rabbits and snowy owls.
Here, a snake is a ribbon,

bookmark between darkness 
and the light we hope will come.

a note of thanks

Thanks to field biologist and nature writer Bryan Pfeiffer, whose essay Songbirds in a New Light inspired this poem and its title.

And thanks to artist and garden designer John Brooks Gray for sharing the photo of Virginia bluebells just now beginning to bloom in his native pollinator garden.

My newest collection, No One Ever Says, is now available in the Lulu bookstore. Spanning the seasons, these poems hold space for vulnerability, stillness and recovery, while drawing on a reverence for the natural world, its abundance and resilience.

Hope

I have stood beneath the red maple
until light-headed,

gazing up
at its fireworks display–

blood-red blooms & samaras
beaded with rain.

I have listened to the improvised song
of a brown thrasher

perched in the topmost branches
of spring’s fiery crown,

been enchanted by
its melodic string of churrs & whistles, 

no beginning
or end, just this note

and the next, the hope
it evokes.

Thank you for reading a small spectacle. For more poems about finding glimmers of hope in the natural world, my newest collection, No One Ever Says, is now available from the Lulu bookstore. Thanks to everyone who has already purchased or gifted a copy, and especially to those who have taken time to reach out and share their impressions about this somewhat vulnerable collection.

The Singing Grounds

A season's turning, early evening. The meadow is a fawn-soft blur of burnt sienna and bisque—an ocean of seedpods, winter asters and swaying grasses. We walk thorny edges, look and listen for shorebirds of the forest. Wait for dusk to give its blessing. And then, a glaucous hush wraps us in quiet too old for any of us to remember. Wind moves through the tree line like a ghost. The meadow hums to itself. The first peents ping. Hoarse. Buzzy. A radio tower light strobes in the distance. With more peents, a flurry of musical chirps and warbles. I track a flash of mottled-brown in a tangle of brush. Was it a woodcock? Too dark now for binoculars, I give in to gloam and watch for song to take shape. 

wingtips twitter
zigzag skyward
in the dimming light

Thank you for reading a small spectacle. For more poems about nature, its healing wonder and resilience, my self-published collection No One Ever Says is available from the LuLu bookstore.

If the Heart Needs Hope

Let it be found 
in an ordinary thing—

the slender teardrop
of a daffodil

just before it blooms,
white wood violet,

bittercress and bird’s eye
speedwell, too,

a tulip tree’s velvet buds, 
and chorus frogs

calling from the stream
behind the house

like hundreds of fingertips
raking across

teeth on 
a plastic comb.

Thank you for reading a small spectacle. This is an older poem from my collection Every Note, a Lantern. While out walking the dog yesterday, I noticed these same things—early bloomers and even the faint sound of frogs calling from a nearby stream—all of which, still give me hope.

Take care, friends.

If a Carolina chickadee was a typeface

She would be light & airy,
sans serif

with long loops & hooks,
feathered cross strokes

& just enough flourish—
like an elaborate drop cap, 

embellished with 
silver & pink prairie thistle,

or maybe, a favorite song lyric
written in cursive,

we are hope despite the times.

a note of gratitude

Thanks again to and for the sacred space offered during yesterday’s gathering of Substack poets. It was such a gift to hear everyone read, and an honor to share a few poems from my newest collection, No One Ever Says. I am ever-amazed at just how welcoming (and healing) it is to be a part of the poetry community you all have created here.

Take care, friends.

Each book contains 12 new poems that were typed on an old Royal Quiet Deluxe typewriter. The cotton rag paper is made from recycled materials, and a small watercolor painting (unique to each book) will be featured on the cover. The paints were crafted from plants and minerals. And the book itself will be hand-sewn using a Japanese stab-binding technique.

Many have already expressed interest, so just a few copies remain to be claimed. Let me know if you would like one and I will share details re: cost and shipping. You can reply to this email or send me a message here on Substack.

UPDATE: As of 6pm EST, the remaining copies have been claimed. I will keep a waiting list in case there are extras. Thank you, all.

a little news

I will be reading several poems from my new collection, No One Ever Says, during a special online gathering of poets, Sunday, February 15. Also reading, will be Sam Aureli and Dick Whyte. The reading will include an open mic portion as well, so looking forward to hearing from many of you from the Substack poetry community (and beyond).

For all the details, check out this post from fellow poet Lisa Jensen, who will be co-hosting the reading with poet LeeAnn Pickrell.

Ode to a Flock of Dark-eyed Juncos

You arrive late-December, tumble 
from a bolt of cotton-batting clouds,
circle the poplar like a fairy ring,
slate-gray puffballs, flashing white 
tail feathers. And then, sleet falls
in the shape of stars; weeks later, 
powdered sugar snow. Now, frozen 
over, forked tracks are a scatter map 
of wind-up toy hops, back-kicks 
and scratches—a story of resilience, 
joy found in a single millet seed. 
I watch for hours, try to keep count 
of soot-black dots and dashes 
before you flush into dusk, blend 
with the gloam like a breath in cold.

Thank you for reading a small spectacle. For more poems that hold space for stillness and resilience, while drawing on a reverence for the natural world, my newest collection, No One Ever Says, is now available in the LuLu bookstore.

The Day Before Surgery

When I say, I’m going outside 
to feed the dark-eyed 

juncos, what I really mean is
I need to find a place 

where my shadow is one
with the red oak,

and this fear—weighing 
like last night’s snow 

on rhododendron buds,
turns to slush.

What I need is to follow
forked prints left by crows,

the zig-zag tail drag
of a hungry opossum

and blood-red berries
dropped by the mockingbird 

rattling around
in the sleet-frozen holly.

I need to know, this is not
the last time I will hear

snow-crunch underfoot,
Carolina wrens fussing

at cats stalking the brush pile,
feel winter’s wind-sting,

the cold dagger of an icicle
in a wool mitten.

Thank you for reading a small spectacle. It is my sincere hope that this wintering season brings you refuge and light, and that all the world can heal in broken places.

For more poems that hold space for stillness and recovery, while drawing on a reverence for the natural world, my newest collection, No One Ever Says, is now available in the LuLu bookstore.

Winters on Holiday Drive

January in Georgia. Snow is sparse and sprinkled with poodle piss. We roll up copper-colored snowmen spiked with bark and brown pine needles. Instead of snow suits and boots, we wear Winn Dixie plastic bread bags over slick-bottom Keds, hand-me-down gloves, and Gamecock toboggans that belong to our father. He keeps us warm Saturday nights with split hearts of loblolly pine, hot sap popping in the fireplace, where we char hot dogs on wire coat hangers. We perch on a brick hearth with our backs to crackling flames, watch The Dukes of Hazzard on a floor model television and see who can endure the heat the longest. Just before nine, our mother makes the rounds, switching on bedside lamps and heavy electric blankets. Cocooned in cotton candy-pink wool, we sleep tethered to outlets, thermostats clicking in the night.

nylon coat swish, scent
of wood smoke, dad reaches,
unlocks the car door

Thanks for reading a small spectacle. My newest collection, No One Ever Says, is now available for purchase from the LuLu bookstore.

Order Now

If you would’ve told me a year ago 

the morning sky will get bigger 
and the mountain will come back 
into view, I might ask, is it because 
we need more room to hold our grief, 
not how many trees will be felled 
between us and the neighbors, 
and what does ruin look like
in the eye of an Eastern phoebe? 
I knew it would be a year of loss, 
beginning with the old dog 
just seven days in, and weeks later, 
a black cat we called Bird. 
A mother woodpecker flew into 
the blue sky of our storm door, 
days after a robot cut out nearly all 
of the parts some say make me 
a woman. I buried too many 
gutted toads, but the wood thrush 
sang all summer and Joe Pye weed 
made the bees swoon. It’s true, 
we carried loss like fire damage
on a box turtle’s shell, but look how 
new tissue has hardened, grown 
over exposed bone. My own scars 
remain tender, and recovery is 
an ever-waxing moon, but here 
at the end of a year—the sun-lit, 
silver glints of chickadee wings
and the sweeping grace of a hawk 
without the blood of a hunt.

Thank you for reading a small spectacle. It is my sincere hope that the coming year brings you peace, much love and light, and that all the world can heal in broken places.

For more poems that hold space for stillness and recovery, while drawing on a reverence for the natural world, my newest collection, No One Ever Says, is now available in the LuLu bookstore.

Order Now

Before the Longest Night

Take inventory of what is becoming—
ruffled buds on bony maple branches, 

moth cocoons woven from 
oak silk and last season’s leaves. 

Pocket rose quartz, pyrite 
and downy woodpecker feathers,

leave an offering of coneflower seeds 
for chickadees and finches, listen 

for the hum of bees—winter queens 
and masons tunneling in. 

Make a wild space for burrows 
and dens, let your shadow 

catch fire on the wall at dusk, 
flare around the edges

and sear a charcoal-smudged silhouette 
to remember these dark hours.

Thank you for reading a small spectacle. I am grateful for each of you and the community we have created. May you find rest and renewal, and deep listening in winter’s stillness.

This poem is included in my poetry collection, Every Note, a Lantern. Available from Kelsay Books and Amazon.

My newest collection, No One Ever Says, holds space for vulnerability, stillness and recovery, while drawing on a reverence for the natural world, its abundance and resilience.

Order Your Copy

star shower

After cotton-soft fog, 
I am drunk 

on oak bokeh 
and the brittle leaf rattle 

of December. Here,
the quiet work 

of a winter aster,
its bone-white petals 

worn like a crown 
until wispy seeds 

fall away
in a tiny star shower.

new poetry collection

I am happy to announce that my self-published poetry collection, No One Ever Says, is now available for purchase in the LuLu bookstore. Spanning the seasons, this collection holds space for vulnerability, stillness and recovery, while drawing on a reverence for the natural world, its abundance and resilience.

Order Your Copy

When I Wore the Earth

I never got to bury a cord or placenta,
only the toothpick bones of wrens and voles, 

and once, a wild rabbit swaddled in a towel. 
There was a time, I wore the Earth 

like skin—sand-spurred and splintered, 
catbrier-scratched and sticky with pine sap. 

My body, tinting bathwater red ocher 
and burnt sienna, left a telltale ring of mud

and minerals I was made to scrub away. 
I wanted to be a different kind of mother, 

wear my wildness like a buzzing crown 
of honeysuckle and clover, share 

the wonder of every small and winged thing. 
Now, the body is a black walnut husk, 

split and tooth-scraped clean of fruit 
and seed; a shade-tree offering, softening. 

a little news

I am happy to announce that my self-published poetry collection, No One Ever Says, is now available for purchase in the LuLu.com bookstore.

Special thanks to fellow poets Ellen Rowland and Kersten Christianson for giving it an early read and sharing their impressions.

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With tenderly rendered images and beautifully crafted language, No One Ever Says bravely addresses the pain, loss, and isolation of the often overlooked, little understood, and frequently underdiagnosed conditions that many women experience. Creel’s poetry is anchored in self-compassion, vulnerability, and an intimate reverence for nature and its capacity to heal. This book is a testament to all that’s left unsaid, written in a voice you’ll never forget.

-Ellen Rowland, author of No Small Thing

No One Ever Says opens the forest of the self, inviting readers to listen for the hush between wingbeats and the rustle beneath the moss. Here, the poet maps the tender, tangled terrain of what it is to be human and vulnerable, rooted in bark and bone, reaching and recoiling like spider silk in wind. This is a collection for anyone who has ever felt the thrum of wildness beneath their skin, the ache of being alive, and the grace that comes from naming it.

-Kersten Christianson, author of The Ordering of Stars

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On the Acupuncturist’s Table

A mourning cloak flies 
from my jawline—

window of the sky
the acupuncturist recites 

as if it was a poem 
or psalm. Another one 

flutters from 
the heart protector, 

flies into the forest 
where it will overwinter, 

tucked beneath the bark 
of a chestnut oak.

a note of thanks

This poem takes inspiration from a beautiful image shared by nature writer Bryan Pfeiffer in his essay When the Sublime Went Digital. I’m always in awe of his writing and photography, but this one resonated deeply.

Thank you for reading a small spectacle. For more poems about the wild things that keep us company here on Earth, my book Every Note, A Lantern is available from Kelsay Books and Amazon.

The Mermaid’s Purse 

No longer glossy & black as 
polished patent leather,

but brittle & gray—
a salted husk with curling horns

that once contained 
a baby ray. 

Our first wedding gift, 
found decades ago 

in a tidal pool at Kill Devil Hills, 
now packed away 

in a tobacco-glaze bowl 
with fossilized coral, 

small whelks & moon shells, 
shard of amber, lucky

blue jay feathers
& fortune cookie scrolls. 

Thank you for reading a small spectacle. For more poems about love and the wild kin that keeps us company here on Earth, my book Every Note, A Lantern is available from Kelsay Books and Amazon.

Coming Soon: New Poetry Collection & Cover Reveal

No One Ever Says explores themes of trauma and grief, while bringing to light the silent and often solitary struggles women face surrounding chronic pain and illness, infertility, and a loss of motherhood. These poems hold space for vulnerability, stillness and recovery, while drawing on a reverence for the natural world, its abundance and resilience.

While I wait for the printer’s proof to arrive, here is a peek at the cover designed by longtime friend and artist, Katy V. Meehan.

Details to order, and a special offer for new subscribers, coming soon.