For just a ten-dollar donation, the Boy Scouts
will take our spent Christmas tree
to deposit in a nearby lake,
its carcass remade as a habitat
for bass and yellow perch.
I imagine them as I take the ornaments down,
fish faces poking in and out of branches,
all black stripes and silver scales,
mouths opening and closing like small yawns.

Dried needles drop with soft hisses,
pool in baseboard corners
and I pick up my pace,
suddenly ready for the tree to go,
filled with urgency to pack the sparkling Santas
with their winking faces, haul the flocked wreath
down to basement, stow it
until next year, when the days are dark
and in need of disruption.

The house feels quiet after, clean–
empty where it was so recently filled.
I dust the vacant spaces,
moving in and out of rooms
while shadows move across the floor.
Cracking the window, new air
quiets the static on my skin,
leaves balance in its wake.