Stump.

They cut down the willow.

The one whose leaves scattered sunlight as they danced,
whispering on the breeze.
Whose branches reached out an invitation as you neared it.

“It will grow back,” they say.
“It’s to benefit biodiversity,” they say.
I’m no expert. (I hope they are)
I believe them, I suppose

But there’s a loss
in the tall, bare trunk.
It’s the emptiness, the space, I feel most.
A deep resonating.

This is where (they say)
the growth happens. 
(The experts, that is)

(At least, I hope they are)