“But Mary kept all these things and pondered them in her heart”
Her child trips toward her
tears squeezing out from between clenched eyes.
His sandal is torn, hanging from his foot
held by only one strap.
No blood, but a small scrape
marks his palm.
A bramble sticks in his hair.
His mother turns from her masterpiece of dinner,
catches her son, and sits in the dust with him,
letting the soup boil over.
She wipes his face
with the edge of her skirt.
He stops crying, burrowing his head
into her familiar shoulder.
She smiles over him, welcoming
the warmth and accepting
that the small pain now
is nothing compared to what has been
foretold. He sleeps and she wraps him
in blankets, returning to her work,