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Leaving Rehoboth
by Kay Weeks

The voices are with me, at times,
but only when it's light.
Flower-like, they bud,
they bloom, then lie to me,
repeating like children's rhymes.

Let me ask:
At night, do you still hear
the words that passed between us
so long ago, earth to sun?

In what order should I pack,
neatly layering my clothes?
Or take them back tangled?

No sun now, but the weather is fine
for leaving, damp and gray.
And what if I stayed?


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