25

I can tell.

I see it in what remains, in what is absent.

Upstairs,

There was once a bedroom.

A prayer room

Was once part of the eastern wing.

At each dawn,

This mansion loses a chamber.

At each sunset,

This hand loses a ring.

And I'm old enough to realize that I’m being asked to leave.

I can tell.

I see it in the clouds, in their departure,

In the distant memory of rain.

In the downward journey of roots.

Perchance, a river flows beneath the expanding sand.

The age of thirst has arrived,

And I'm old enough to realize that I’m being asked to leave.

I can tell.

I see it in me, in the gospel I carry inside.

In the pages being ripped out.

In the scribbles over the author’s name.

In the melting of seams.

This book has been proclaimed a heresy,

And I'm old enough to realize that I’m being asked to leave.

*

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