The Slow Leaving

I will live like this,

a broad landscape

broken like snail shell

across the garden.

This pulling apart

of the land in loose silver strands.

Roots of irises exposed.

I will not articulate,

not for you,

the anxious house

I built around myself.

In my garden, chrysanthemums

billow.

The wind is landing

differently this year.

I no longer expect

to win or for you to stay

stood in the doorway

in all that ridiculous light.