SIMONE WEIL'S LAST WORDS

The raindrops on Sunday
resume to fall on your roof
perspiring at the wellspring
from her last words
in her vocation
were as a fathom of letters
swaying under her raised arms
carrying a knapsack's
spiritual cover of her volume
from an bas-relief of leaves
of an art's phantom photo
on your commentary in the Illiad
of a hushed lover Patroclus
looking over Achilees
from a larger parting cloudy sky
children are rushing by the river
for a frisson of laughter's
leaping faith of excitement
Simone stares at
her opinion's proof
that the wind touches us
by smiling at our belief
that God has not abandoned us
after confessing your sin
when you heard the flocks
of birds sing a chorus
away from demon hawks
haunting gulls at their nest
as a branch leaf trembles
on water drops faintly warm
by the sea rocks on the beach
reaching out to the sand
for shells in her skeleton hands
emerging soon as shadows
in this mirror of afternoon
hearing church bells
far from guns and weapons
not welcomed anywhere
during the storms of Occupation
as a night exile in the country
writing between imagining
Janus and Jesus
on an island with bread crumbs
content amid vigorous sun dunes
you are self martyred
whose praise remains with us
as ransom with your insight
always feeling like a wanderer
or a stranger than a mystic
a contrary philosopher
or literary critic
to atone in your own convent
with a new horizon for saints
by bright argent stones.