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