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.