When you said your firewood
contained sunshine trapped for years
in a grateful rushing exuberant burst
for hours afterward I was still
absorbing the cold bright air, a piled-up feeling -
hearing as the wood must hear
traffic sounds, animal snufflings, church letting out.
I was the silver maple you'd split
and saved, something for snow to fall on.
Moss grew on me as your footsteps hurried by.
I could not speak for the light aching in my throat.
(c) Copyright 1999. The Christian Science Publishing Society