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