The rain settles into the stone and darkens it. Water gathers beneath the statue’s chin and falls slowly into the garden below.

The face of old St. Francis is worn smooth in places, eaten rough in others by years of Maine weather and harder winters.

Moss holds to the cracks like natures glue. The leaves of the rhododendron behind it stay green and alive while the statue endures the changing of another season.

It bows its head as though listen to something long gone. No one had carved sorrow into the face, but time as placed it there anyway.