In Anno Domini 1099, the 15th of July (St.
Henry’s Day, back then) the 1st Crusaders
repossessed the Sepulchre (a tomb, still bare).
Gorged on fanatical massacre, the gluttony
of boots, they knelt there (pondering the absence
of a sign) & celebrated their conquest – the new
Lords of the Holy Land (awhile). Then, in 1132
(33 years later) deep in Calabrian hinterlands
was born that blooming prophet of the Holy Ghost
(Joachim... Fiore). Upon whose hoary sheepskin
manuscripts was scrolled a radiant-obscure vision –
an eagle falling from the sky... rainbows, interlaced
in 7 rings, over a host of men & angels, rising
from the mountains of the dead. To meet
the God of Hosts, returned : & so complete
6 ages of yearning & hope, labor & suffering.
I say, our planet pivots on the contrast here :
kings’ desolate dominion in a code of war
or spiritual power of a slave of slaves. Poor
Francesco, with his lambs – stigmatized minor
fratello to Jesus... groom to his grey sister-
dove (miadonna Povertà). Monk Joe beheld
the rough, rude, solitary path (ragged, unshod
up dreary hills) each soul must mount... ladder
to restoration of all things. Earth & heaven,
futurpresenpast... one round square dance,
with panagyral pipery. Millennial romance...
the promise of Natasha (in her oaktree den).