What occupied my dreaming
in the crabapple tree in
the grove above the lake?

in the dark closets of my mother’s
attic, the pieces of her purple river
dress taken one torn
square at a time for the tiny
talismans of my

in the Brigadoon under the bed
appearing only
with the trundle pulled
away, my
escape dream unrecoverable

under the camp pine tree in the hollow left
in summer by my father’s feet
where he stood each afternoon with his
the coniferous scent sticky bark a
protective bubble around my
secret tender

and by the boulder I thought
was hidden
in the trees I thought
made an entire forest.

Where did they
go, the
winged longings, when they
to circle above me?

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