His seasons

and her pause, like the edge
of autumn’s breathing, when she feels
the freeze will come
and all that dry hope is piled
neatly at the curb.
Because she knows it,
the sudden storms,
the way he shakes the house, how
she hears the rumble
and starts to count. Knows
she no longer asks herself
which is worse,

the peeling and the glare,
the burn of constant exposure
or
the grey damp silence
reaching bone.

How she’ll still put on
her floral dress, pockets
ripped away, and water
her salted garden.