Six humans trapped by happenstance
in the 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 around the fire,
he noticed one was black.
The next man looking across the fire
saw one not of his church
and couldn't force 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 sat back and thought
of the wealth he had in store
and how to keep what he had earned,
from the lazy, shifless 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 only to those who gave,
was how he play his game.
Their logs held tight in death's still hand
was proof of human sin
they didn't die from the cold without,
they died from the cold within.