It was quiet enough
in the alley behind the barn,
warm against piles of hay,
despite the winter chill.
I heard the sharpness
in her breathing.
“It’s coming,”
and I held her
against the cold,
against the pain,
against it all.
“It’s coming.”
They were hard,
those first hours we all spent together,
coming after so long a journey.
Later
poets would tell of stars,
shepherds,
and seers,
songs of angels.
But all that I remember
at the end of that longest night
is the cry of my heart
as in my arms I held,
perfect,
love.