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There’s a hole in the sky this winter,
Old friends, where you used to be.
Where I watched you anxiously,
Year after year.
Alas, you gave up your struggle,
To hold on to your leaves far far high,
This year it was adieux and goodbye,
Via the skilled treeman’s saw.
One of you first, left the other,
Alone so bent and tall,
As an old man’s shoulders fall
When he misses his mate.
Missing your breezy curtsies
As a ballerina dancing toward him,
And knowing he could not survive a trim,
Surrendered to that same treeman’s saw.
I grieve for your sixty grand years,
Of shading morn, noon, and after.
Arching as a temple’s rafters,
There’s a hole in the sky this winter.
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