Six humans trapped by
happenstance in bleak and bitter cold.
Each one possessed a stick of wood,
or so the story's told. Their
dying fire in need of logs,
the first man held his back, for of the faces
'round the fire, he noticed one was black.
The next man looking 'cross the way saw
one not of his
church and couldn't bring himself to give the fire his stick
of birch. The third one sat in tattered clothes;
he gave his coat a hitch. Why should his log be put to use to
warm the idle rich? The rich man just
sat
back and thought of the wealth he had in store,
and how to keep what he had earned from the lazy,
shiftless poor. The black man's face bespoke
revenge as the fire passed from sight, for all he saw
in
his stick of wood was a chance to spite the white. The last man
of this forlorn group did naught except
for gain, giving to only those who gave was how he played the
game. Their logs held tight in death's still
hand was proof of human
sin: t h e y d
i d n ' t d i e f r o m t h e c o
l d w i t h o u t ;
THEY DIED FROM THE COLD WITHIN.