On the church steps on a cold clear morning
three days before St. Valentine’s Day
there he was in the deep shade,
a slender young man with a days-old beard
and only a small towel around his shoulders.

Honey, whispered the little red-haired angel
who nudges me when I need nudging. This one.

We can do no great things, Mother Teresa said,
only small things with great love.

And, driving in the car, I had two small things
filling the back seat—a bulky egg-crate
piece of foam large enough to sleep on
and my late mother‘s bedspread.

I parked, got out and approached him,
the big foam pad in my arms.
Would this help? You could spread it out and sit or…
Oh, yes! he exclaimed. That would be wonderful.

And he came down the steps and took it as gently
as if I were handing an infant into his keeping.
I went back to the car for the bedspread, and,
watching him hug it to his chest, I asked his name.

Vincent, he said.
Jan, I said.

Two nights earlier I had driven around
to places where I knew the unhoused
usually sleep with the bulky bedding in
the back seat, finding no one. And in
the eerie dark I wondered, Where have
they all gone? Were they chased away?
I know they’re out here somewhere.

Honey, there are no accidents, the little
red-haired angel whispered. It’s one of her
favorite sayings.

Vincent lingered with the bedspread as
I noticed that he’d already spread the foam pad
on the church’s top step.

My mother died recently, I blurted. These
were hers. I think she’d want you to have them.

He didn’t hesitate. God rest her soul, he said,
the first time someone has said this to me
about her.

And while I’m hopeful that her soul
is at rest somewhere, St. Vincent’s blessing
touched me deeply.

And yours, too, I said watching him turn to walk
back up the church steps, wrapping himself
in a small thing, the little red-haired angel and I
sending prayers for his safekeeping, that he might
find some warmth and rest of his own.