Invisible Interlocutor

Imagine a saint, talking with heaven

One who loved poverty and animals

What magical yeast was fit to leaven

The bread of this life, its bones and vitals?

His countenance is not very handsome

Nor should beauty and wisdom be confused;

What can a homely, mortal face become

When it heeds a call it cannot refuse?

Perhaps, those dark eyes saw more than the sky

That trembling hand, stigmatized, could feel more

Than that monk's habit, humble, coarse and dry

Perhaps it touched no surface, but the core

Of silence pure enough to become speech

Of vastness infinite, but within reach