In the absence, I feel longing.
The longing cannot be explained away, dissected, bisected, and catalogued.
It is blood deep, bone deep,
and the waiting hurts.
The absence wants filling—the rising of this sunken sap, the swelling of these hidden buds on their spindly wood.
The absence reminds me of what is lost, but will be again. And that is a frail frost-bitten hope, but it is hope.
And the absence leans away from the clipped cold winter,
anticipates and prays, hanging on in spite of,
and waits for spring.