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I follow
the stitchwort path . . .
an old hideout
tilted in the branches
between earth and sky

the sycamore
where a child
once fled—
beneath the bark
the hidden scars

unearthing
the doll I buried
in the roots—
she spills her sawdust
on the wind

over the years
the seeping resin
transformed to amber—
the weight of grief
resting in my palm

early stars
against the dusk
a barred owl
returns to the hollow
hauling new dreams

    -  by Dru Philippou