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.
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.