Absence Poem by Sally Sandler

The air lost weight today
just after the saws
took down the giant tree.
The ample bosom of leaves,
the fullness of bird song
and gravity of shade
are pulp with the grinding.

The tree was a cathedral
in our backyard sky.
In place of cupola,
column
and buttress,
now a façade
of suburban gray,
and no leaves turning.

Five men, one truck
and one afternoon,
enough to change the
landscape of the sky.
A century of habitat,
a poet's gentle bower,
fed to the dragon jaws
oiled and waiting.

A guilty fragment of sunlight
sneaks across the fence,
uncertain of its welcome.
In the corner, a leafless breeze
holds its breath.
Anemic flies worry the air
like mini-ghosts, evicted
from their homes
without warning.

Absence.
Like when my sister left home—
the one who helped us dress
each day for school.
Now the sun reddens
my bare back,
and my shadow impatiently
fans its face.