Upon the so-called death of a Beguine, Marguerite Porete , at the stake, in the year of our Lord, 1310 AD.
His Timing was impeccable.
She had waited, not knowing where or when.
Her patience, a small carved wooden box,
a lock of hair, a tuft.
In that last year she had become lost in Him,
speechless to this world,
Only hearing her Beloved.
All else was babble.
She burned brightly, her body a flare,
not so much a distress signal as a call,
her desire, her Everything, slowly winding up,
His Focus, spiraling down to her.
Braided in a final endless Embrace.