She strums Autumn between her nostalgic fingers
humming at the rubs of sweater strands; sings truth to the realm of courage.
She is an old polaroid suspended by jute string
where she has become an heirloom of brave.
She is unusual, the flower behind the wall.
Bruised amber for a crown that only a few can perceive.
Soon you will reckon with her
for she is bubbling complete.
She is the root, the tree, and everything after.
She is September Girl.
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