When you said your firewood

contained sunshine trapped for years

then released

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

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.