A Killing Frost

When the cold front came, all the leaves went limp.
That was that—no more white flies on the patio,
one bloom still curled tightly in its calyx, 
its promise of color fading. Yet there’s nothing
like a radio in a room without tables 
or chairs—the way music can furnish our lives
with something. A cracked clay pot holds 
the door open as you pack up your belongings
in boxes that have lost their stiffness, 
move after move after move, leaving more behind
each year, a flower swaying on its stem 
in a silent dance. It doesn’t matter what was
playing all these years, what more could you want
than this—to travel as light as possible? 
Leave me in this house as evening washes over us.