Making Me

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harvest season


if a book was satisfied

being opened just once

her pages would fall

with each turn

by instinct

to yellows and browns

reds and oranges on the ground

her words would fade

after your eyes laid

be quick

with the end of the season

her bindings grow stiff

to match the chill

when that warm touch leaves

inherent directive

paper goes back to the beginning

keeps the seeds warm

hums tales of days to come

when another sun rises

raises them up

higher, closer


stand firm till next winter

these stories are not privy

to those forged in this library

their roots cut by spring’s end

still desperately chase that promise

of another sun to keep them warm

they will not wilt

until they find that prophesied light

that gave purpose to their struggles

against the undergrowth

the magic inscribed within their veins

finally turning to gold in your hands

the seasons roll by once more


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