Shannon Dow
There are stories that live in the open—
and others that take root beneath the surface.
My work explores quiet intersections of identity, growth, and belonging,
where light does not always warm,
and what remains unseen still shapes who we become.
"Not all light warms"
Creative Mind
S. Dow is a poet and children's novelist whose work explores the deeper layers of everyday life through vivid imagery. Her writing has appeared in the Museum L-A Poetry Workshop Anthology, and she is best known for her children’s novel Pinkie. An educator at the elementary and adult levels, she values language and connection. She is currently working on a poetry collection exploring growth, visibility, and the subtle dynamic relationship between light, space, and identity.
“I was not made for the burning—but for the quiet work beneath the surface.”
Books
Magazines
Light Reflects the Knight
When little Iris can't sleep without her beloved Pinkie, big sister Hazel promises to bring Pinkie back to Iris and sets about, secretly, doing just that. The bond between the sisters prompts Hazel to defy parental "rules" so her sister can feel safe with the comfort of her security blanket. The author hopes readers see the message to take care of each other, support emotional well-being, and think about how to begin letting go of things.
“What remains unseen still shapes who we become.”
Poetry
Not All Light Warms
Not all light
warms.
As the season changes,
I stand in my bareness-
nothing left
to soften the cold.
Still,
I turn
toward the light.
Its brightness-
limited.
Held low.
Not high enough
to reach me
fully.
My tips
sway in the shadows-
frigid,
withering
at the edges.
Still,
I turn
toward the light.
Because I thought
light
meant warmth.
But this light
only shows me
how exposed
I am.
It stretches across me
without settling.
Touches
without holding.
And I-
I remain
in the shadow
it creates.
Still,
I turn
toward the light…
until I can no longer
feel
the difference
between reaching
and freezing.
Not all light
warms.
Too Much Light
You placed me
in the sun—
where I thought
I needed to be.
Basking.
Asking
for nourishment—
not exposure.
The light did not soften.
It did not shift.
It stayed—
too bright,
too constant,
too close.
So I turned away.
The burn—
overwhelming.
Edges drying,
curling inward,
becoming something
that could not hold itself.
Still—
I turned away.
My roots
pulled tighter
beneath the surface.
Curling
through compacted soil,
searching not for more—
but for relief.
Deeper
they reached.
Into coolness.
Into darkness
that did not demand
anything of me.
And I turned away—
not out of weakness…
but because I finally understood
what too much light
can take.
Now,
I rest
just beyond it.
In the shadow
that lets me
keep growing.
What Holds Me Together
Roots
My roots learned
before I did.
Circling.
Tightening.
Tangling—
until they stopped searching
for space.
Because within the boundaries
of confinement…
no space
remained.
So they turned inward.
What holds me together
is buried.
What holds me together
cannot be seen.
They absorb everything.
Every drop
that makes its way down—
every nutrient
sprinkled here and there,
inconsistently,
without pattern,
without promise.
Still—
they take it in.
Store it.
Build from it.
Strength
cell by cell.
What holds me together
is buried.
Not visible.
Not reaching.
Not asking
to be known.
Just—
tight.
tangled.
strong.
Growing inward.
In the dark.
Below the surface
of light.
“What remains unseen still shapes who we become.”
I Don’t Quite Know
I don’t quite know
how to make sense of the world—
how to hold it
without it splintering in my hands.
Tonight, with my head on the pillow,
I return to this morning—
to the student who found me
just to say hello,
just to place a hug on my ribs
like a lifeline,
as if my heart were something
they could steady.
And for one brief moment,
the vastness loosened—
the tight fist of our collective anxiety
opened its fingers,
and I remembered
what calm feels like
when it is shared.
Still, the truth remains:
Coming to school feels like a risk.
Leaving home for anything
feels like a risk.
Not because fear floats in uninvited,
not because it drifts like weather—
but because something cold and sharp
has entered the air,
icicles hanging over our days.
They don’t merely glint in the distance.
They threaten.
They pierce.
They turn ordinary routines
into calculated choices,
and they make safety
feel conditional.
So I close my eyes
and cling to a single hope—
that our students,
our families,
are warm tonight,
protected,
sheltered from the reach
of those jagged icicles,
spared the harm
they are capable of.
And here it is—
the weight I carry:
The enormity of being a teacher
settling on my shoulders
like a heavy coat I cannot remove.
It is hard to quiet my own fears
and stand in calm,
to become steadiness
for those who are still learning
what the world can do,
and what it can take.
Yet teaching in our beautifully diverse community
has changed me—
softened me,
strengthened me,
made me more human
than I ever expected.
I am better
because of them.
So for them,
I will learn to carry my emotions with care.
I will show up—
again and again—
with a steady presence,
with open arms,
with all the love I can gather,
offering lifeline hugs
as if they are small bridges
back to breath,
back to safety,
back to one another.
Winter Holds Me Still
Winter asks something of us—
a quiet we cannot outrun.
Dark comes early.
The world narrows
to what is held inside.
For some, this is confinement.
For me,
it is where I return
to myself.
I gather what has been lived,
turn it gently—
what lingers,
what aches,
what remains unnamed.
I am learning
to tend to my own life—
to reclaim what I have given away
in quiet exchanges
that asked me to be smaller.
I cannot live that way now.
So I begin again—
slowly,
deliberately—
making space for thought,
for stillness,
for something whole.
Winter does not rush me.
It keeps me here
until I remember:
I was never meant to disappear to survive.
Reader Reviews