A splinter slips from the sun—a gift—
diving, pointed end first, into our backyard.
I tell everyone the sun’s own heart sent it to us,
a bright sinew, pulsing and beating in the blue grass.
We watch. We clap. We coo. We panic
when the ground around the thin strand boils.
My sister grabs the garden hose to quell the heat.
Sarah Hulyk Maxwell lives in Pittsburgh and works at a downtown law firm. She has two cats, a husband, and an MFA from Louisiana State University. Her most recent work can be found in Bluestem Magazine and NANO Fiction, and at Petite Hound Press.