The Saint And Her Fool Poem by Christine Natale

She appears in the evening, young and lovely,
Tracing the very edge of a womanhood
That she will never know.
She glides among the trees, singing a silent
Vespers to the stars, and sighing love
And praise to her lord and God.
Dressed in white robes, soft sandals
Bind her feet and keep them
From the sharp and thorny ground.
She weeps for every fallen leaf
And tenderly gathers roses for her room,
Where altar lights and triptychs gaze
At all her virgin mysteries within.

Hidden in a tree, he gazes down
In longing for a love forever banned
In motley red and blue with
Golden bells that softly chime.
She never hears or looks away
From her self-contained holy duties.
Later, he plays and mocks the great
With an aching heart
Across a polished floor.
He only knows the earth and what it is;
Through all it seems to be.
And in his cold and barren little room
His hot tears wash the painted grin away.