Canticle*They sat in the convent gardenbreathing in rosemary and thyme,Francis ill and frail, his vision obscured.Clare had lost use of her legs,both their faces markedby lines that told stories—how their chosen povertyhad intensified their love,had freed them from unnecessary burdens.They talked for hours,stretched like a tent above them,their laughter and weepinghung in the air like rose garlands,interrupted by moments of stillnesswhen they paused and listenedto the way the breeze rustledthe world, coaxing forth its song.And when sunlight emergedthey turned their faces toward it like daisies,and when rain pouredthey huddled under the roofto hear how its rhythm echoed their hearts.As summer

St. Hildegard Strolls Through the Garden Luminous morning, Hildegard gazes at the array of blooms, holding in her heart the young boy with a mysterious rash, the woman reaching menopause, the newly minted widower, and the black Abbey cat with digestive issues who wandered in one night and stayed. New complaints arrive each day. She gathers bunches of dandelions, their yellow profusion a welcome sight in the monastery garden, red clover, nettle, fennel, sprigs of parsley to boil later in wine. She glances to make sure none of her sisters are peering around pillars, slips off her worn leather shoes