by David St. John

    It was there， in that little town

    On top of the mountain， they walked，

    Francesco and Chiara，

    That's who they were， that's what

    They told themselves——a joke， their joke

    About two saints， failed lovers held apart

    From the world of flesh， Francis and Clare，

    Out walking the old city， two saints，

    Sainted ones， holy， held close to the life……

    Poverty， the pure life， the one

    Life for Franziskus and Klara，

    Stalwarts given

    To the joys of God in heaven

    And on earth， Mother， praising Brother Sun

    And sister Moon； twin saints， unified¹

    In their beauty as one， Francisco and Clara，

    A beauty said of God's will and word， bestowed²

    And polished by poverty， Fran？ois

    With Claire， the chosen poverty， the true

    Poverty that would not be their lives……

    And they took their favorite names， Clare and Francesco，

    Walking the streets of stone the true saints

    Walked， watching as the larks⁴ swirled⁵

    Above the serene⁶ towers， the larks

    Francesco once described as the color

    Of goodness， that is， of the earth， of the dead……

    Larks who'd not seek for themselves any extravagant⁷

    Plumage， humble⁸ and simple， God's birds

    Twirling and twisting up the pillowing air……

    And Francesco said to Clare， Oh little plant I love，

    My eyes are almost blind with Brother Sun……tell me，

    Who hides inside God's time……？

    And Clare， rock of all Poor Clares， stood

    In the warm piazza⁹ overlooking the valley， weary，

    Her shoulder bag sagging¹⁰ from the weight

    Of her maps and books， and said across the rain-slick

    Asphalt of the parking lot， to the poor bird climbing

    The wheel of sky it always had loved best，

    Dear lark³， dear saint， all my kisses on your nest！

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