The absence whispers like a leaf gone dry
with no ta-da, watch me flare, I’ve waited all year.

The absence whispers in not quite. In almost. In if only.  
It waits to revisit the earth, waits for ash to be shaken,
to float free of the ash, the words, the music, the food, the fifteen
parked cars, four with out-of-state plates. The spectacle.
                            
The absence never liked spectacle. Except
baseball, stadium packed. I wish I’d known
what the absence needed. It kept secrets from itself.

The absence knew what it didn’t believe. The Holy Grail,
for example, was a crock of you-know-what. Those who chased 
modern versions were gadflies. No comprehension of history’s 
horrors or the value of a dollar or a simple wander by clear water. 
Even very old
                             the absence wandered, without a walking stick.
It chose woodlands and grassy spreads, dipped into streams. Once 
it changed planes three times for a snorkeling plunge. It sat in a 
train the entire distance to red rock country. When it stepped off 
and the train pulled away into nowhere
                                                                  the absence stood lost
to a cobalt blue hour with a view of purple slopes and peaks.
Just then no despair, no loneliness in being other-than.
It shared this with me almost inadvertently. There was a
small adobe art museum. A painting of dust and hurtling horses
and air, the element of air.
  
In slant morning light, under the wilt
of late summer leaves we gather, we wait.

The absence hovers. Comes close, a breath.

I didn’t visit often. It would drop any subject I tried,
slump a little and sigh when I left, as if too soon.