Six humans trapped by happenstance in dark and bitter cold, each possessed a stick of wood, or so the story’s told.

Their dying fire in need of logs, the first woman held hers tight, for on one face around the fire was one for who she felt spite.

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 next man’s face bespoke his greed, as the fire passed from his sight, for what he saw in his stick of wood he would need the next night.

And the last man of this forlorn group did naught except for gain: giving only to those who gave, was how he played the game.

The logs held tight in death’s stilled hands, were proof of human sin. They didn’t die from the cold without, they died from the cold within.

Author Unknown