She left
with her sack of stones
and one dying rose,
fragrant as Pinot Noir.
Someone said they saw her
on a downtown street,
quoting from a weathered Bible,
drinking from a wrinkled bag.
It’s December-cold.
I see the baby God
come like a crescent moon
to rest in her lap.
Kathleen Gunton is a photographer
and teaches in Orange, California
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