T. Jewell Wardwell Collins

Glastonbury resident, T. Jewell Collins, a prolific writer and teacher of writing, passed on at Hartford Hospital on February 5th, following a brief illness. Mrs. Collins’s articles appeared in a number of prominent magazines and newspapers, and many of her students were published in national and international publications, as well as regional and family magazines. Jewell always took a personal interest in each student, encouraging them to think expansively about their talents and ways to express them.

She loved learning about other cultures and religions and spent much or her retirement traveling to places such as India, Turkey, and Israel.

She will be sadly missed by her three children, Mark, Betsy, and Shepard, and their respective spouses, her three grandchildren, Julian, Emily, and Maya, her neighbors in the retirement community where she lived, numerous friends in Maine where she vacationed and ultimately lived for many years, and the many friends that she kept in touch with across the country and around the world.

Following cremation by the Glastonbury Funeral Home her ashes will be interred in the family plot in Needham, MA. Donations in her memory may be made to the Audubon Society of Connecticut or the Greater Lovell Land Trust in Lovell, Maine.

Here are some evidences of Jewell’s great talent as a poet. The following are two poems sent to the poet laureate of Glastonbury for possible publication in the new once-a-month “Poetry Here and Now” column appearing for the first time next week in the Glastonbury Citizen,—a fitting tribute to Jewell’s poetic talent.

SPRING'S HERALD

Spring is here! How do I know?

The earth is covered still with snow.

The trees stand stark with not a sign

Of summer’s leafy green design. .

The ice is frozen in the bay.

It looks as though it’s here to stay.

But on the south side of the ell,

The sun has shone for quite a spell,

Melting winter’s snow away.

It happened just the other day.

And a robin sang at misty dawn.

He must have found that patch of lawn.

In summertime I’d scarcely hear

A robin’s song on morning air,

But now I wake because I know

Despite the coldness and the snow,

The robin’s song means just one thing,

Winter’s gone—at last it’s spring.

THE LADY'S SLIPPER

In woodland patch beside the path

She lifts her pale pink flower,

Surveying from a regal pose

Her woodsy outdoor bower.

She needs no mirror to reflect

Her beauty, charm, and grace.

She stands serene, a holy thing,

Hallowing this place.

Do not pluck this floral queen,

Modest in her glory.

Let her reign in silent tribute

to spring’s unfolding story.