In one version, the witch wins.
What lesson in that, besides we get
what we do not deserve? Cast out
to follow a distant curl of smoke,
we leave our past behind
and find our way, or don’t.
That smoke might come not from
a chimney but the forest on fire—
trees exploding, a column
of flame two hundred feet high.
Take off your leather coat,
brother, and let me put my hands
against your chest. Even if we stop
in the middle of the story
and set out alone over these acres
of scorched earth filling up
with more water than the sky can hold—
still beyond us that curl of smoke
that who’d blame us
if we mistook for home?