I think there's a poem in this, I'm just not up to writing it right now, so I'm going to write down the thought.
Anyway, there's a shelf of maimed figurines that she's keeping, just in case. At the right, an angel playing a harp, in deep red robes, with one shining wing. Then, a single wise man, looking for the prince of peace, alone, next to Mary caressing a lamb's head with one hand, the other hand rests by the side of a shattered glass cherub. Another angel, magestic in gold leaf, reaches up toward the roof over her head, holding aloft her arm in a position that says "Lord, please restore my hand to me, it broke off when a child thought I was as beautiful as you think I am."
Two santa boots are next to her. We have very few santas in stock, they're not exactly Christian, but why we have two of his boots, standing tight together as if their owner had just exploded, leaving his boots behind, is a mystery. There's still bits of flesh-pink inside them.
Two more wise men, of a different make than the first, from a more retro-primitive universe. A collection of hands, some of them holding doves, others clenched in fists. A donkey with one ear.
Saint Francis, the archangel of the apocalypse. A deer nestles at his side, a dove perches on his shoulder. His sleeves hang empty before him.
A small, cracked cross.
One shepherd, looking east.
Another donkey, and a very small, glass, angel's wing, trimmed in gold.