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Been burning

last year's hurricane

trees from friends and roadside,

and our own backyard,

but I was down to nothing.


A fire glowing in the woodstove

is psychologically comforting,

so I called a local number

listed in the paltry advertisements

of my small town newspaper.


Victoria promised

a cord of wood

delivered early in the morning,

so my husband wouldn't be awake,

alarmed by unknown men.


Two men arrived one hour late,

spoke little English,

but left a perfect trapezoid

of stacked, split firewood.


There are more details to the event

but for now, burning the trees of winter is more

and less emotionally taxing than words

or the money spent.