For the Feast of St Catherine of Siena

She drank the purifying firewater (purer than the purest alcohol) from the fountain where all can drink to the full. Then she immersed herself. She emerged with the fire in her eyes and came close to the beggar in the ditch and the pope within the palatial estate. Her words and deeds became the titanium arrows drawn red-hot from the furnace of his chest. He had died of that hunger so intense it produced the bloody sweat that fell to the ground and mixed with the dirt of the earth and covered the surrendering wood. (The dry wood burns best.) The fire can’t help itself from burning. It transforms into itself whatever comes near. It dries up the dankness of conceit. She preached the atonement of both the furnace and the fountain. She took on the air of the unquenchable flame.