Thursday, March 13, 2008

Poem XVIII

St. Francis protects dogs and bird
From calamities like death or starvation
An old woman who prays for her son
Invites succor on his behalf
She speaks in a language as simple
As the cooing of a dove
For the saints have no patience
For bombast and theology
A monastery wall is the most blessed
And can crumble for centuries
Protected and peaceful
It never speaks
Its thoughts are the color of ivy

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