St. Francis and the Nun

The message St. Francis preached to the birds,

Though not recorded, isn't beyond surmising.

He wanted his fellow creatures to taste the joy

Of singing not only to please each other

But to praise creation, to offer hymns of thanksgiving

Similar to the hymns he sang on waking.

Granted the birds had little talent for language,

But maybe they'd grasp enough of his earnest tone

To feel the spring shouldn't be taken lightly.

An audience hard to hold, to be sure,

With a narrow attention span, a constant fluttering,

But a lot less challenging than the nun he counseled

Only this morning, a woman still young

Dying slowly in pain, who asked him

Why if her suffering had a purpose

That purpose couldn't be clarified in a vision.

Why not at least some evidence

That the greater the suffering reserved for her

The smaller the portion reserved for others?

What a balm to be able to think as Jesus did,

That with every difficult breath of hers

Patients in sick beds around the world

Suddenly found they were breathing easier.

What a relief for Francis these birds are,

Free of the craving for explanation, for certainty

Even in winter, when the grass is hidden. "Look!"

He calls to them, pointing; "Those black specks

There in the snow are seed husks. Think

As you circle down how blessed you are."

But what can he point to in the nun's spare cell

To keep her from wondering why it's so hard

For the god of heaven to comfort her?

All she can manage now is to hope for the will

Not to abandon her god, if he is her god,

In his hour of weakness. No time to reply

To the tender homily at her bedside

As she gathers all her strength for the end,

Hoping to cry out briefly as Jesus did

When his body told him he was on his own.