In Florida, I left the family room with a perfect wall unit
in blond wood, with a mirrored back. I left the cabinet
for the sewing machine because I’d never sew again.
The grapefruit and tangerine trees at prolific maturity.
The new owners chopped them down.

A friend left a farm where she’d had an idyllic life
of hard work, caring for goats, one calf, a pig, four dogs,
growing most food for her daughter and herself, making
art all morning while her child was in school, baking
bread every day. She left oil paintings behind

by the hundreds, cheese-making equipment, sold
her cameras to pay for dental work. The owner’s
son took over until it all went to hell without her skills
or knowledge. Or steady effort. How easy she makes
everything seem, even the letting go.

People are fleeing Syria, Sudan, Somalia, leaving
everything behind: cook pots and photos, favorite
boots and bowls and family silver. Their arms are full
of children and worries, not pets. They cannot
carry beds or blankets on crowded boats across

the Mediterranean. This fall, I’m planting
flower bulbs after heavy rain: Fritillaria, tulips,
hyacinth, crocus, adding to the thousands
of daffodils and iris along the paths, the pond’s edge.
My nails are full of dirt. In ten years, the magnolias

will be majestic with huge white blooms, their scent
heavy as you come down the driveway.
The flowerbeds and ferns will flourish,
in view from the screened porch. One day,
I will leave all this behind. Not yet. Not yet.

You were in the produce section of Whole Foods,
sniffing cantaloupes and honeydews, not
drooling. You placed only organic greens
in your cart that already held onions,
lean ground beef, cans of tomato puree.

I knew you were Italian before I looked
at the wagon’s contents—the way your hair
is graying, darker near your neck.
Not once did you pull out a phone. You
were deep in concentration, as I am

planning a dinner of imported pasta
with meatballs in my homemade sauce.
I didn’t tell you I can my own tomatoes,
would not stoop to flirt. You didn’t see me.
I didn’t see you look at me, though maybe

you did as I pranced off to buy shrimp
for scampi, which I will serve over linguine
without you, while I listen to podcasts
by Sam Harris, knowing you’ve come as far
as I from Brooklyn. Like me, you smile

at falling leaves and crow conversation,
find the crescent nails of cats on carpets endearing.
You sleep with your dog, are well read,
love Broadway music, Rock ‘n’ Roll,
the scents of wood smoke and baking bread.

You favor Mozart over Wagner, and draw in ink
so you can take your art with you anywhere.
Anywhere but here. You don’t know me, won’t
see me in Charlottesville again. Farewell,
the one and only love of my overactive mind.