Bed askew with straw, rummaged
leftovers of the menageries’ last meal.
A stone space quarried like the heart of a
small ark, opening just enough
to cradle the straw.
The stall, open planks no match for the midnight
chill, gaps lasering light, streaming in on stone.
Mother draped in simple cloth, teenaged
hands trembling as she lays her infant
in the place of the animals’ meal.
Suckling sounds as He stares, still, into the sky
where the host of Heaven lift voices
through the spheres
Announcing His presentation,
which, as the young father recalls,
would at last be everything.