An arthritic, little old lady lay,
In a meager cabin midst the fields far away,

With a blanket of snow, after several storms,
And the fire going out, that the body warms,

Her heart grew sad as the cabin cooled,
No kindling or wood for the cook stove fuel,

She feared that she would perish for sure,
Too weak to forage for fuel, or endure,

From partial sleep, she became aware
Of a tallish masculine presence there,

It had silently slipped into the room,
And was laying a fire in the deepening gloom,

When the fire burned nicely, it was gone,
Just as suddenly as it had appeared to her on

A mission of infinite kindness and more,
Not a footfall was heard or the closing of the door,

When the lady at last looked out at the night,
Thru the window pane, felt surprise at the sight,

Only pure driven snow was all that she could see,
Not a footprint or a path, even fools like me

Suspect that angels still intervene,
Now and then, when needed, on the human scene.

by D. Edgar Murray