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Paula Meehan
my father perceived as a vision of st francis
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i heard him
rake the ash from the grate
a perfect
vision of St. Francis
made whole
made young again
the garden
was a pandemonium
he was
suddenly radiant
his hair
completely silver…. the stoop of his shoulder… his leg was stiff
stars
in the west
frost whitened
the slates of the estate
in a
finglas garden