1. Sistered by Death
For some there are vanities that rise up as rags,
And declare their holy poverty to the world;
For others, language is a dazzling vestment
Worn close to the skin;
But you, Francis, kept your words and your poverty
At a sacred distance, so that in each dawn,
You could rise like a swimmer
And breach the water afresh,
Hair bubbling with curls.
And thus, in the time that you made your own,
You could seek the light of life in a swaying viper’s eyes,
Know that in the curving of a thorn
Begins the poem of the rose,
And hear amongst the best of birdsong
A small motet of crows.
In all that you astounded, so you confounded,
Until, at the end, you lay down upon the earth,
And, sistered by death, simply shed your life,
Lay inert,
Espoused to dust,
As quiet as lightning.