by Patricia McClelland
A crisp slice of moon rises
the chosen star ignites
Balthazar binds gold to his saddle
Melchior gathers the myrrh
Gaspar measures frankincense
desert night wind swirls
sand about the stable
it rustles beneath ragged rasps
of beasts settling into sleep
and the harsh rhythmic pants
of a woman delivering
the promised messiah
her labor made painless by faith
He will turn things around