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Deep Water

It is chilly enough to keep one inside, yet warm enough to dream of Summer.

Spring is a day away, and we are all holding our breath hoping that the lingering warmth will grow as song birds sing. In so many ways it seems that when nature bursts forth humanity does as well. We take more risks and hope more boldly. We cling less to realities while pushing forward into the unknown. Uncertainty seems less daunting when green covers the naked world.

Hope rises as spring brings with it a beauty we knew would come. In such a way, we find ourselves rising up with it; moving forward beside it; crawling out of our holes and conversing within it. Once I thought spring was simply a changing of nature, but it is a changing of us as well. It is the purpose of our hearts finding itself once again. It is a reunion of dreams lived, not merely dreamed. It is a deep water finally pulled forth from the well to extend our fragile lives.

Journal Entry 3-19-16

© Jeremiah Dowling 2016


Winter’s Voice

Winter spoke subtly through the warmth, “I’m still here.”

We had forgotten about her when the sun shown bright and the snow disappeared between blades of green. Excitedly, we searched for the robin and the first day of spring. We scoured each branch for buds and bursts of life. In a moment of ecstasy we even thought of running barefoot.

Then, a chill snuck through the radiance and forced another layer upon us. The sun slipped behind some clouds and took a nap. Winter spoke and reminded us of our plight.

Journal Entry 2-17-16

© Jeremiah Dowling 2016


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

Two Poems Penned

Chimney smoke hung between two mountains
Strung up
Like a sheet in the wind

Sitting on the air not wanting to leave
Not hurried,
And not liking the building breeze

The white puff that was,
No longer is
The cold has pushed it away

But it will return again
And dissipate there too


As seasons fade
The leaves do scatter
Propelled by the unseen

Mistaken for creatures
A bird, a chipmunk
Or an animal on the move

These leaves can be deceiving while driving,
I slow up and I swerve
Only to realize it is in vain

But when warmer weather rolls through
And these animals do come out
They can be mistaken for leaves

So which is, I ask
‘Tis critter or crunch of leaves
That I will avoid today

© Antonia Simonik 2013

A Younger Generation

I love driving home beneath the stars.

The night is always so still here. When you live in the mountains the lights seem so distant. Overall these lights are hidden deep in the valleys letting the stars shine brightly on the mountain top. There, on a grandeur peak, the constellations are revealed like gold doubloons from some recently unearthed treasure. As I drive I can see the seasons exchanging their stars in the heavens. Like a dying father summer passes its stories down to a younger generation. The chilly breeze enlightens its telling, as if it were summer’s final breath.

Every night along my route I am immersed in the saga being told across the sky. If I were allowed to go back in time and invent anything I’d invent the stories behind the stars. I’d trace their shapes and create their characters. I’d create their purpose and plot. Then, I’d sit back and pray that the stories in the stars would still be remembered generations from the moment of their conception.

What do you love about the stars?


The morning has just opened its doors to us and it makes me want to write more; to write specifically of freedom.

Right now the world seems so free.

The wind moves where ever it wants; the trees push their leaves out as far as they can; the birds search as hard as they can for a mate; the rain dumps as much of itself upon the earth as it likes; time moves it’s seconds by with boldness; and I fail, yet again, to confine these things on my page with what could be – if I wanted – an endless supply of words.

– Journal Entry 5.26.11

I read this the other day and loved the idea. I wrote it around this time last year, and so its very easy to relate to the concept. Also, last night I asked my girlfriend what she liked the most about life right now, and she said the seasons and the transition between Spring and Summer because it seemed freeing. So, as I post this today the idea of freedom seems a lot more real to me even than it did last May 26th.


The gates have opened and we have entered, once again, into reality.

The birds are singing, the cat is begging for food, the dogs lay themselves down to collect the rays of the sun. In a far off corner of the house a tea kettle silently boils, prepared to burst into a shrill song. Deer move elegantly across the field in search for taller greener grass. All that was once a dream is now here before us.

Reality never left us, but we left reality.

For a night; for a sleep; for a fleeting moment.

We purchased a home that was not ready to be purchased.

We gathered our things and moved in before ever learning what a home really was.

In reality we weren’t there yet, but in the dream we were.

As the gates opened we saw that what is before us is not quite what the night told us it would be. Our dream was merely a sampling of reality; an oracle that spoke of our hopes for the future.

What is before us is simply a picnic lunch filled with storytelling; today is another step of a dream lived out.

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