The monk sat in his temple
Swathed in his saffron robe
While incense wafted through the air
Somewhere a gong could be heard, in the distance
Pristine, austere, noble
With all the trappings of wisdom
With the aura of enlightenment
With the odor of sanctity
With the nobility of humility
And the pilgrim asked him, are you poor?
“No,” said the monk
“For I desire nothing,
Cling to nothing
Long for nothing,
And so I am free,
Even rich
As though I possessed
The whole world.”

Francis sat in the dust
Covered in a beggar’s rags
While the scent of sewage lingered near
The coughing of the poor was heard, all round
*****, abject, neglected
With all the trappings of homelessness
With the aura of his friends, the sick
With the odor of his brothers, the abandoned
Having forsaken nobility for humility
And the pilgrim asked him, are you poor?
“No,” smiled Francis
“For I have found Him whom I desire,
I have cleaved fast to Him,
I am filled by Him,
And so I am free,
Even rich
For I do not need the world
When I embrace its Master.”