Her thoughts of sleep faded away like the last star on that early summer morning

when the last shafts of moonlight slip behind billows of white

awoken and walking among the wood

there was a fog within the birch tree’s hanging with verdant hue.

a mist

a pervading heaviness remains on the leafy blades only an inch higher than the dirt

gilded leaves hang heavy with dew upon the bleached boughs

on went she and north her journey took into mountains old and its corners dim

riding paths of hard packed clay leading to fields of heather and golden-rod

she was something that lay under the sun and felt it and did not want to be anything more.

© Antonia Dowling 2012


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About Jeremiah Dowling

I write poetry and take crazy pictures in an Orange Chair all over the United States while reading amazing books.

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