The wind moves, and things move in it.

I remember the day we burned the trees, reeking

of pine, our clothes scattered

with sap and needles, the heels

of our boots braced against the trunk to help us

saw the firs to pieces, freeing

the ghosts of witches from their limbs and boughs. That night

we watched as they went up in smoke, my hand

in yours, the stars all bright and cold, the new year

laid out like roads before us.