The Seventh Log

Willy Whitefeather

      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 the face around the fire, he 
noticed one was Black.

      The next man, looking across the way, saw not 
one of his church, and he just couldn't bring 
himself to give the fire that stick of Birch.

      The third man sat in tattered clothes, he gave 
his coat a hitch.

      Why should he put his log 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 sixth 
man in this forlorn group did nothing except for 
gain.

      Giving only to those who gave was how he 
played the game.

      The seventh log you hold my friend, the choice 
now is yours, the others, their logs held tight in 
death's still grasp was proof of human sin.

      They didn't die from the cold without; they 
died from the cold within.