A long walk up the mountain from Assisi—
my boot heel severed from my right foot Redwing,
I smacked it back, using some broken pavement.
I’d walked my little brother to l’Eremo,
some thirty years later I’d be a Catholic.
Now, I suppose, I’m almost a Franciscan.

I’d come not to find God but the Giottos,
ancient eye candy for a twenty-something.
The lingua franca in the town was Latin,
the only tongue I shared with Philippinas
and three nuns hailing out of far-off China
watching the sun set from Rocca Maggiore.

Articles by Timothy Murphy