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