as my best friend of long standing has reminded me to do.

I forgot to mention our visit to the Chiesa di S. Franceso

 

in Foligno, perhaps because a photo exhibit got between

the two of us and our intended destination (once again).

 

But as I’d said, before truth broke in with the mindless chatter

about distractions every now and again: O what’s the matter?

 

Blessed Angela of Foligno!  What great marvels has the father

worked in you?  Born into property, married early to another,

 

She gave him children (as they were accustomed then to say);

she loved them dearly (to accept what a church folder portrays).

 

Illiterate she was, also a custom; still exceedingly vain and proud,

she dictated instead: “I searched for ways to be adored or honored.”

 

She came to hear the grace of God knocking at the door of her soul.

Coming as late to this sacred place, we can hear the locking of doors.

 

“Sto chiudendo la chiesa,” a whisper sends us off to do research

with a key to punctuate his sentence: “I am closing the church.”

For a poem of a better and a different sort, see “The Art of Europe” website.