The Book

Hold, my heart-

my September heart-

in my hands,

a moment

held captive,

green,

leathery,

covered in

left-over spring.

A gift

never given,

not from

this point of view.

Growing with months,

three quarters full,

until I

shut

down

with the last leaf

hoping to keep secret

the sacred side

of me.

I gave you

my September soul

all wrapped up

in brown,

edited

hastily down,

a copy of

my once true self.

I want to keep

this greenery.

Still it burns up

my hands,

arms,

to that place

where memory resides,

behind beats

and below breath.

I pack it away

saved

for another time,

for now is

too soon to renew

my September self.